Contented Wi' Little II: A Dream Within a Dream
by Ancalime Erendis
Summary: AU sixth year. The stakes keep going up as Snape and Zarekael continue their efforts to undermine Voldemort, with the assistance of a rogue agent.
1. Sleeper Wake

**The Disclaimers**

Don't worry, you won't have to hack your way through ten pages of disclaimers this time. As long as you've read "The Selkirk Grace", you'll do fine, both with this story and with the disclaimers to follow.

Firstly, all disclaimers from "The Selkirk Grace", with one exception, are in effect. I leave it to you to figure out what that one happens to be. Feel free to guess. It'll keep you (and probably me) highly entertained.

Secondly, there are a couple of extremely lengthy disclaimers that will appear at the head of the chapters they specifically concern. This is so that 1. This section will be more or less short, and 2. You won't have to deal with out-of-context spoilers.

Thirdly, if they appear in Rowling's books, they're hers. If they don't, they're mine, with the exception of Zarekael, Glaurung, and the Llewellyn family, who are the intellectual property of my friend and mad collaborator, Snarky Sneak.

Fourthly, yes, Snarky actually exists. She is not a product of my imagination. Someday you may hear from her, just not now; she's buried in the lab for the foreseeable future.

And lastly, the only songs/poems contained herein that are mine are the Skulkers' musical butcheries (and yes, **_all_** of those are mine). Everything else belongs to either Robert Burns or Edgar Allan Poe, unless it's otherwise credited in the text.

****

A Cautionary Note

This is the first story I'm posting that is not nearly finished. That is to say, it all exists in my head, but not all of it is on paper yet. As a result, it will probably post a bit more slowly this time around. HOWEVER! I refused to start posting until I had at least one-third of sixth year written and disked, and I will be working on the remainder of the story in the meantime. So hopefully by the time I get to the end of the first third of sixth year, at least the next third of it will be finished and ready for posting, and there won't be any interruptions in the posting schedule. But if there are, at least you've been warned ahead of time.

****

One Final Little Thing

"The Selkirk Grace" introduced most of the principal players in this story, and, consequently, it was relatively fluffy. "A Dream Within a Dream" chronicles the downward spiral of several of those characters and, as such, is something of a grittier story. That means harsher language, nastier and more frequent violence, and…well, to be blunt, it starts out with an innuendo or three, and goes rapidly downhill from there. This fic is rated R for language, violence, gore, adult situations,and vampirism. Kids, do yourselves a favor and don't try to sneak in on a fake ID; save yourselves some trauma and go check out the lighter fare on the PG pages. But for anyone hoping for hot sweaty _anything_…may I recommend instead a trip to the sauna; the story is disturbing enough without adding that to the mix, believe me.

And now, without any further ado:

**Contented Wi' Little, Part II: A Dream Within a Dream** by Ancalime Erendis

**A Dream Within a Dream by Edgar Allan Poe  
**Take this kiss upon the brow!  
And, in parting from you now,  
Thus much let me avow—  
You are not wrong, who deem  
That my days have been a dream;  
Yet if hope has flown away  
In a night, or in a day,  
In a vision, or in none,  
Is it therefore the less _gone?_  
_All_ that we see or seem  
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar  
Of a surf-tormented shore,  
And I hold within my hand  
Grains of the golden sand—  
How few! yet how they creep  
Through my fingers to the deep,  
While I weep—while I weep!  
O God! can I not grasp  
Them with a tighter clasp?  
O God! can I not save  
_One_ from the pitiless wave?  
Is _all_ that we see or seem  
But a dream within a dream?

****

Prologue

PRESENT: MID-JUNE

Had anyone been around to see (and of course no one was), that person might have been a touch alarmed to witness the sudden arrival of two most uncommon individuals. This twosome appeared with a crack, as from thin air, near one end of an alleyway not very far from Privet Drive. They were in appearance more Muggle than most Muggles and more official than most officials—magical bureaucrats by all accounts.

The taller of the two had neatly trimmed black hair, parted precisely down the middle and combed backward from his face with a degree of care and attention that bordered on anal. He was clean-shaven and possessed steely gray eyes and a bland countenance.

His associate had shoulder-length black hair that was just as precisely parted down the middle and pulled back into a ponytail centered exactly at the nape of her neck—pulled back so tightly, in fact, that her age was impossible to tell, for the styling of her hair acted as a daily facelift. She, too, was possessed of gray eyes and a bland countenance, made a touch further severe by the judicious application of very dark lipstick. Both she and her partner wore well-tailored, unadorned black suits with black shirts and spit-shined black shoes.

This extraordinary pair neither spoke nor looked at each other, but on some unuttered signal, they stepped off on the same foot at the same time and made their way, in perfect marching rhythm, first to Privet Drive, then to house Number Four, where the shorter one rapped at the door.

The door was opened, and the dynamic duo watched dispassionately as the lady of the house did a double-take, then swallowed, then somewhat composed herself. "Er, yes?" she managed.

"Petunia Dursley?" the shorter visitor said abruptly.

"Er, yes—"

"Husband Vernon at home?"

"Er—"

"Good," interrupted the taller visitor. "We'll want to talk with him, too."

Then, before Petunia could do much more than blink, the pair were past her and showing themselves into her sitting room.

"Might want to close the door," the shorter one advised over her shoulder. "Nasty time of year to catch cold from a draft."

By the time Petunia had closed the door and followed them to the sitting room, the pair had seated themselves stiffly on the couch, directly opposite two armchairs. On one of these chairs perched the alarmed Vernon Dursley; on the other, the petrified bulk of Dudley. Harry Potter hunched in a corner behind his uncle's chair, where he could safely look amused as he regarded the visitors with interest. This happy family dynamic was not lost on the pair, but neither saw fit to mention it.

"Have a seat," the taller one said, indicating a chair nearby, and Petunia was off-balance enough to do so and thank him for it.

"Permit us to introduce ourselves," the shorter visitor said without preamble. "I'm Clarissa Clap, and this is Trevelyan Trap. We've come from the Ministry of Magic."

Dudley paled visibly, and his father went purple; Harry grinned.

"Right," Clap sighed. "Can't have the neighbors hearing, now can we?" She smirked. "Although I doubt they're more likely than certain others present"—she looked pointedly at Petunia—"to be eavesdropping." Then, arching one eyebrow, she added, "Mr. Trap, if you please."

Trap drew a polished black wand and covered the room in silencing charms. To judge by the expression Harry now wore, he recognized both the wand and the voice of its owner, neither of which were in the least affected by Trap's disguise and both of which identified him as _not_ belonging to the Ministry of Magic. Oblivious (seemingly) to the boy's sudden scrutiny, Trap completed his task and stowed the wand up his sleeve, surrendering the floor to Clap once more.

She cleared her throat and began again: "_As_ I was saying, I'm Clarissa Clap, and this is Trevelyan Trap. We've come from the Ministry of Magic."

"Clap and Trap?" Vernon repeated with a sneer.

He was treated to twin impassive looks. "Is there something wrong with that?" Clap demanded flatly.

"Er…no." Vernon fell silent.

"Good," she said. "Then we can continue."

Trap drew from his inside lapel a very thick envelope, which he lay on the coffee table in front of the Dursleys.

"Inside of that packet," Clap stated, "is a written form of what Mr. Trap and I have the pleasure of explaining to you today, along with a few hundred necessary forms that you may or may not wish to fill out—in triplicate, naturally, for your inconvenience." She leaned forward confidingly. "Whether or not you submit them makes no difference in the grand scheme; our superiors just like to have paperwork lying about—it gives them something to lose."

"Other than their senses of humor," Trap added.

Clap eyed him authoritatively. "Not so, sir," she countered matter-of-factly. "Operatives at our level are permitted senses of humor, but you can't be a superior if you're still afflicted by one. Regulation 10582, sub-paragraph B, you know." She caught sight of the Dursleys (and Harry, who was staring at Trap in mingled disbelief and amusement), then seemed to recall that she was here on business. "Enough of the small talk," she said briskly. "There have been some interesting happenings at a certain school for incurably criminal boys that actually have quite a bit to do with you."

Vernon and Petunia turned a sickly white, and Dudley screwed up the necessary intelligence to look surprised. Harry, who had suspected that these two were from Hogwarts—and who knew already that the Dursleys' St. Brutus' fiction was known to Dumbledore—smiled behind the others' backs.

Seeing these reactions, Trap narrowed his eyes in malicious amusement. "Yes," he drawled. "As you see, we know a great deal about you and your Muggle pettiness."

"Now see here, Clap," Vernon began, but Trap cut him off.

"I'm _Trap_," he snapped. "_She's _Clap. If you're going to use names, Petunia, have the good grace to get them right!"

Harry stared at Trap in astonishment mixed with a touch of delight and some alarm. There could be no doubt about Trap's voice, nor even his sharp-tongued reactions, but in this context, the fact that Trap possessed a sense of humor (something which Harry had never attributed to him) was disturbingly evident.

Vernon, meanwhile, fought an obvious battle with his tongue before returning to the subject at hand. "At least cut to the chase and tell us what this is all about, Crap," he growled nastily.

"You oughtn't to talk to yourself, Petunia," Clap admonished him. "People will think you're mad." She smirked, then cleared her throat. "_As_ I was saying before I was _so_ rudely interrupted, there have been some interesting recent happenings at Hogwarts—a battle, to be precise, from which your nephew was fortunate to escape with his life." The Dursleys seemed rather less concerned than many (not including either Clap or Trap) might have expected.

"But what do you care about that?" Trap said blandly. "One less burden for you to deal with if he dies, and after all, _you_ were in no danger at all." He turned to Clap. "Ordinarily, I would quite sympathize," he remarked truthfully. "Potter does seem such a weedy, troublesome thing, wouldn't you say?"

Clap nodded wisely. "Indeed," she replied. "Why, the trouble it must cost them to toss him hand-downs and a whole plate of scraps each day! The horrendous expense it must be to give him better than moldy bread and rain water! Think, Trevelyan—only think!—of all the drills Petunia has to sell in a day, just to take care of Harry Potter!" She shook her head. "I suppose I'd want him gone, too."

"Pity the Order confiscated the arsenic and cleansers," Trap sighed melodramatically, his eyes glittering as Petunia (the true Petunia) looked thoroughly panicked at the idea that her cleansers might be missing. "If I were afflicted with such a troublesome wisp, I might think to poison him myself."

Harry obviously had no difficulty in believing Trap's words, although their delivery could not possibly have been more sarcastic. Petunia opened her mouth to protest, but Clap smoothly cut her off.

"Whatever your theoretical or actual feelings in the matter, the fact remains that you are not as safe as you probably think you are."

Trap picked up exactly where and when she left off. "There is a strong possibility that the Dark Lord will target your family very soon," he informed them, suddenly quite deadly serious again.

"And why should he do that?" Vernon demanded. "What would be the point? The boy's one thing, but we're different; we're not—"

"Freaks?" Clap suggested with a nasty smirk. "That can only be determined by a jury of your peers, so we'll leave it to the court. But you _are_ of importance to You-Know-Who"—it was clear by their faces that the Dursleys did _not_ know who—"because you're the greatest protection Harry Potter has."

"Galling, isn't it?" Trap commented, speaking from personal experience.

Clap's face had resumed its customary blankness. "You-Know-Who's greatest enemy is Harry Potter; it is vitally important that he be as protected as possible. You-Know-Who, not being a fool, knows this, so his primary goal toward dispensing with his enemy is dispensing with that enemy's protection—namely, _you_."

Dudley gulped and Petunia paled, but Vernon looked skeptical and more than a little suspicious. "So what exactly are you asking of us?" he inquired.

Clap and Trap had anticipated this response; indeed, neither one (particularly Clap) had been under the illusion that their mission would be successful, no matter how they carried it out or presented themselves.

"We're not asking anything of you," Clap replied quietly. "We're merely letting you know that your lives are in danger." She approximated a smile, but her face was not made for such treatment, so the result was not at all pleasant.

"And we're offering you the opportunity to go into hiding or protective custody," Trap added.

"Absolutely not!" Vernon roared, standing suddenly to tower over the two oddities on his couch; the oddities in question did not so much as blink. "I will _not_ be whisked away to be sequestered indefinitely by a bunch of freakish…_mutants_…who for all I know have made all of this up as an excuse for having us willingly submit to experimentation!"

"Impossible, sir," Clap said calmly. "The Ministry does not condone animal testing. And I do not have adamantium claws or strange mental abilities, so I fail to see the rationale behind calling me a mutant."

Trap turned to look at her. "_I_ have adamantium claws," he told her in an injured tone. Behind the Dursleys' backs, Harry shoved most of a fist into his mouth to hold back a guffaw.

Clap raised her eyebrows. "Well, _you're_ just special, then!" she replied, sounding a touch envious.

Trap raised his nose just a bit, looking as smug as it was in his nature to do.

"Will you _stop_?!" Vernon snapped. "I'm being _serious_!"

Trap looked hurt at the suggestion that his claws might not be a properly serious subject. Clap, meanwhile, narrowed her eyes to dangerous slits, and she suddenly looked very evaluatively at Vernon, as though contemplating the most efficient way to kill him. "Oh, so are we, Mr. Dursley," she said silkily. "We take the safety of Harry Potter _very_ seriously, and you may or may not believe it, but we would take your safety just as seriously if you were not at all connected with him."

Vernon sneered at her. "Somehow I doubt that," he retorted.

"The fact that _you're_ no altruist does not prevent _us_ from having a genuine concern for others," Clap shot back, actually sounding rather hot under the collar as she got to her feet and stood nose-to-nose with him. "How _dare_ you presume to judge me or my associates, about whom you know nothing accurate, you bloody-minded, pigheaded, scumsucking pathetic excuse for anything even remotely resembling a reasonable human being!" By the end of this eloquent litany, all present were thankful for Trap's silencing charms; Clap's voice had raised itself progressively to an all-out shriek.

Everyone, with the sole exception of Trap, was staring at her in shock; she had betrayed a flicker (and then some) of genuine emotion, and it was rather unsettling. Trap merely looked sidewise at her until she had finished, his expression as bureaucratically impassive as ever.

Once Clap had stared Vernon back into his chair, Trap spoke. "There, there, Clarissa," he said soothingly. "He's not worth another heart attack."

"I know, I know," she replied, reassembling her own bureaucratic mask, slowing her breathing, and resuming her seat. "I just have…difficulty dealing with useless, narrow-minded—"

"Oh, no. No, don't start again," Trap ordered calmly, catching her arm to hold her in place before she could leap to her feet again. "It's all well and good to be passionate about your work, but you must remember your health."

"My health." By now, Clap was once more fully collected. "Right. My health."

Trap turned now to the Dursleys. "We won't take any more of your time," he told them coolly. "Should you decide to accept our help—and I truly wish you would—the packet contains instructions on how to contact us." He and Clap stood in perfect unison.

"We'll just show ourselves out, shall we?" Clap said airily, then paused and turned back to the Dursleys, a reptilian sheen in her eye. "And be aware: We will be watching. If you raise a hand against Harry Potter, or mistreat him in any way…we'll know."

Trap nodded sagely. "And we'll enjoy the consequences far more than you will," he advised them darkly.

"Have a lovely evening!" Clap called over her shoulder as they departed. "Cheerio!"

---

They apparated to the Forbidden Forest, where "Trap" turned to "Clap" with a sardonic look. "What, exactly, is adamantium?"

Clap let out a laugh, then shook her head. "I didn't _think_ you were the type to read _X-Men_, but you had me a bit worried there," she didn't quite reply.

"And I didn't think you were the type to be short-tempered," he rejoined. "Didn't Dumbledore originally send you along to keep _me_ in check?"

Clap shrugged, then drew her wand and turned it on herself. "_Finite glamourie,_" she said. Her appearance charm faded briefly, but Trap had no opportunity to glimpse the face beneath before she put in place a very different appearance charm. She was now a bit taller, with waist-length blonde hair and mischievous blue eyes.

Trap shook his head. "That's more than a little unsettling," he remarked.

"No more unsettling than _you_ telling _me_ to think of my health," she countered.

He smirked, then he, too, canceled his appearance charm, returning to his only slightly different normal countenance.

"Welcome back, Severus," his companion said dryly.

"Thank you," he replied, in a similar tone. "Though I'm not sure what to call _you _at the moment, Neshdiana."

She smirked. "At the moment, my name is Margaret Dashwood," she told him. "But I'd prefer it if you'd call me Rasa."

****

Part I: Rasa (Sixth Year)

Chapter 1: Sleeper Wake

A FORTNIGHT EARLIER

The hospital wing was in thorough chaos, the expected aftermath of a costly battle. At one point, an American Auror who had emerged unscathed from the battle itself was brought in screaming, restrained by several conjured bindings and by a fellow Auror. She was sedated quickly, but not before uttering an item of news that served only to darken the mood further: Meli Ebony, the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, had fallen in battle.

An hour or so later, painful confirmation followed in the person of Dumbledore himself. Poppy Pomfrey looked to the door just as he entered, levitating Ebony's lifeless body before him. He beckoned the mediwitch with a look, then, when she was close enough to hear words intended for no one else, he murmured, "Is there a private room available?"

Poppy nodded once, then led him to the room opposite the sedated Auror's. "There are two beds in here," she pointed out. "If the need arises, we can move one out." She did not ask why he had brought Ebony's body to the hospital wing; it was obvious that the remains had to be kept out of sight and protected. More than that Dumbledore would probably not readily reveal.

---

Dumbledore returned at about four in the morning, and even though Poppy had her hands full, he asked her to accompany him to the room in which Ebony's body had been placed. Something in his tone compelled her to follow him, but she first took the time to notify one of the mediwizards on loan from St. Mungo's that she was stepping away. Even if the earth had been bare seconds away from falling into the sun, Poppy Pomfrey was not one to leave her patients unattended.

Meli Ebony lay just as they had left her. Her jet black hair splayed across the pillow, her face and hands paler than Poppy had ever seen them. Marble lids shielded sapphire eyes…there was, in fact, no blue visible anywhere on Ebony's face. She looked to be asleep, not at all dead, though she had been so for several hours.

"Please close the door, Poppy," Dumbledore said quietly. When she had done so, he drew his wand, aimed it at Ebony, and said only one word further: "_Enervate_."

Poppy felt her jaw drop to her collar bone as the dead body before her drew a deep breath, coughed, then opened her eyes with a moan.

"Judging by the post-seizure pain I'm experiencing," Ebony remarked dryly, her eyes riveting immediately on the headmaster, "I assume we won."

Dumbledore smiled. "Yes, indeed," he replied. "But that doesn't account for all of the damage done."

Ebony tried to nod, but her head jerked to the side, and Poppy now noticed that the young woman's hands were twitching uncontrollably. "I don't think people are meant to stupefy themselves," she sighed. "Certainly not with someone else's wand."

Dumbledore now turned to Poppy. "Meli simulated her own death by stunning herself with a peculiarly strong charm," he explained. "After a battle like this one, neither Death Eaters nor Aurors pause to check for a pulse when they find a body. Unfortunately, she did it using Collum Fell's wand, which was damaged."

"And I had an improper grip on it," Ebony added. "Not to mention that I didn't exactly employ the proper swish-and-flick motion. I'm lucky to have lived through it."

"That will be why you're showing symptoms of light neurological damage," Poppy told her, covering her shock with a businesslike manner. "Fortunately, Severus and Zarekael replenished our supply of the potion necessary to repair that."

Poppy was the only one present who was unaware that the replenishment was due more to luck than to precise design; the brewing of that particular potion had been entirely for the purpose of covering up the two spies' extracurricular activities when an Auror had chosen an inopportune time to visit Hogwarts six months before.

"You'd better give me a sleeping potion or a pain potion powerful enough to knock me out," Ebony said. "Just in case Voldemort's not done yet."

Poppy frowned, but Dumbledore nodded. "I'll see to that, Poppy. Bring her the healing potion—and I don't need to tell you not to say anything about Meli to anyone."

"Of course not." She turned to leave, then froze, her hand on the doorknob, at what Ebony said next.

"What about Severus and Zarekael? Are they all right?"

Dumbledore answered immediately. "When last we saw them," he replied, "they were fine."

---

The door closed once more behind Poppy, and Meli turned her attention fully to Dumbledore.

"They reported to Voldemort and haven't come back yet," she surmised.

He nodded slowly. "Between his costly loss and the report of your death at a Death Eater's hands, Voldemort is most displeased," he replied.

"Which is why you've waited this long to revive me."

He nodded again. "If you wish to remain dead," he said wryly, "your voice is best left unheard until you are once more recalled to life."

Meli smiled wanly. "I take it, based on your words to Poppy, that you intend to medicate me from my own stock."

Dumbledore's smile displayed less humor than pragmatism. "I doubt, somehow, that Poppy stocks most of your potions of choice," he answered. "A few of the necessary ingredients would be considered suspect in some circles." He gave her a knowing look. "But in terms of potency, they are far better than what Poppy keeps on hand."

Meli tried to shrug, but the motion went awry, and she nearly punched herself in the face instead. "I don't believe that many people would see the same gray areas I do," she sighed, intentionally ignoring the disturbing evidence of her damage. "Perhaps that makes me wiser…or perhaps it's one more sign that my past still has too much of a hold on me." She took a deep breath. "Either of the bottles at the left end of my worktable will suffice. The taller one holds a sleeping draft, the shorter a pain potion with a knockout punch. I leave it to your discretion."

He nodded, his eyes twinkling, then left. Poppy returned long before he did, and they had a fun little adventure administering a large dose of healing potion in spite of Meli's "fit of the jerks" that came on any time she made more than a minor motion. The mediwitch proved quite up to the task, however, so, by the time Dumbledore entered with a bottle, Meli was once more lying back to rest and Poppy was capping her own bottle.

The headmaster had opted for the pain potion, as it happened, and for that Meli was grateful. She would be a touch more groggy when she woke, but she would be further along the path to recovery.

There followed another adventure, accompanied by a second fit of the jerks, to force down _that_ dose, but the potion went swiftly to work. Even as Poppy lowered her slowly to the pillow, Meli was covered with a thick blanket of dark, painless sleep.

---

She awoke shortly before noon, groggy as predicted, but feeling a touch better than she had. It really was fortunate, she reflected, that she had taken more damage than that of the seizures and so had to remain here for treatment, or she'd go insane with boredom. It would be impossible to smuggle her out of the hospital wing until Poppy emptied it out, and it was quite clear that Dumbledore intended to keep her survival secret, an arrangement of which she highly approved. She had been too visible before and too much of a danger to people she cared about; now, in death, there was a chance that she could do more good than harm and get in several painful digs against Voldemort, as well.

These happy reflections kept her occupied as she came gradually awake, and along with consciousness came a tangible sharpening of her wit. She lacked only company on whom to inflict it.

Shortly after thinking that evil thought, Meli was rewarded by more company than she could quite handle all at once. The door opened and in came Poppy, levitating a large, unconscious figure that proved to be Zarekael, and followed by a bedraggled but conscious Snape. This last visitor seemed quite surprised to see her alive, while Poppy looked apologetically at her.

"This is the only place we can put him," she told Meli.

"Quite all right." Meli caught Snape's eye. "The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated," she remarked. "And, hopefully, will continue to do so."

Snape, who stood inside the doorway, narrowed his eyes in understanding amusement, then glanced to Poppy and gave Meli a significant look. She could not safely nod, but she smiled an acknowledgment.

All right, Severus, I'll cover for you. By all means, flee from the overzealous mediwitch.

Clearing her throat, she looked to the overzealous mediwitch aforementioned, who had by now arranged Zarekael on the room's other bed. "I hope you're not planning to give me anymore sleeping potion until he comes to," she said. "I'd like it if Zarekael and I could respect one another in the morning."

From the corner of her eye, she saw Snape smirk as he sneaked away. Poppy, by contrast, was not so amused; she turned to Meli with a disapproving eye and a long-suffering sigh. "I can already tell you're going to be my favorite patient," she muttered.

Meli smirked. "Actually, poor dear, I honestly believe that you prefer your most difficult patients unconscious." She looked at Zarekael. "He's your least troublesome charge, I'm sorry to say."

"But at least the more troublesome patients will still be treated," Poppy said firmly, then turned to the door. "Wouldn't you agree, Severus?"

There was no answer, though, for Snape was nowhere to be found. His accomplice found herself instantly under the mediwitch's eye.

Meli smiled unrepentantly. "Birds of a feather?" she suggested impishly.

Poppy glared, but she had no scathing reply for that. With a persevering look, she turned her attention to Zarekael's still form, clearly trying to figure out how to examine him without displaying evidence that he was a Death Eater.

Dumbledore, fortunately, chose that moment to return. It seemed to Meli's eyes that he was laughing to himself, most likely because he had seen Snape making tracks a moment or two earlier. "How is he, Poppy?" the headmaster asked.

She turned toward him, then looked pointedly at her other patient. "I haven't examined him yet," she replied.

Dumbledore closed the door behind him. "It's all right, Poppy," he assured her. "Meli knows."

Poppy was startled by that revelation, but she made a quick recovery. "All right, then," she said. "I _will_ still put up a screen, though."

"By all means," Meli agreed. "I don't want to see what that sick poseur did to him this time." She could see from where she lay that Zarekael's hands were covered in blood, and she wondered how much damage Voldemort had done. He was a potions teacher; he needed his hands for his livelihood. And if the Dark Lord had been angry enough to damage Zarekael's hands, what else had he been angry enough to do? Meli squeezed her eyes shut against the memory of the shredded and oozing mass that had been the Potions apprentice's back not eight months before.

Poppy directed an unreadable look at her, then put up a screen that blocked both mediwitch and patient from Meli's view. Dumbledore moved around to stand at the foot of the bed so that he could see the examination.

Various muttered words and phrases reached Meli's ears: "Blood on hands…not his…minor scrapes…serious scratches…torso…frock coat shredded." Poppy raised her voice slightly once her examination was completed. "He hasn't wakened since we last spoke?"

Dumbledore's voice was grim. "No."

"That worries me," Poppy replied, and Meli's heart sank. "There's some neurological damage, but not enough to cause a coma like this—he's in far better condition than Meli." She was silent for a few minutes, then suddenly growled in mild frustration. "Zarekael, you are entirely too big!" she fumed. Her mood probably did not improve at Dumbledore's chuckle.

"Thank you, Poppy," the headmaster said, stepping out from behind the screen. "Let me know when he wakes up." He turned back to give her a significant look. "Oh, and _don't_ forget to notify Severus."

Poppy pulled the screen back, and Meli was hard-pressed not to laugh. Zarekael's shredded clothes lay in a pile, and Poppy had had to levitate him and dress him in clean garments. He now lay on the hospital bed, clad in Slytherin-green short-sleeved pajamas. Green was most definitely _not_ his color; it gave a sickly tinge to his complexion and made him look even more ill than he actually was.

Poppy favored Meli with a disapproving look, then sighed. "I need to see to other patients, but I'll be back shortly to check on Zarekael." She left, taking the apprentice's wand with her.

Meli soberly met Dumbledore's eye. "Is he going to be all right?" she asked quietly.

He shook his head. "Neither Poppy nor I have seen anything like this," he replied. "But in the past, Zarekael has shown a considerable capacity for recovery and a tenacious will to live. I see no reason why this time should be any different." He paused, then smiled. "Is there anything I can bring you, Meli?"

She gave him a relieved smile. "Oh, books would be _lovely_." _Anything to take my mind off of Ruthvencairn's condition,_ she added silently. "I'm tired of counting ceiling cracks."

His smile broadened a touch. "Very well."

Once the door closed behind Dumbledore, Meli turned her attention to her new roommate. "I like the green pajamas," she commented. "It's a very nice color for you. It doesn't quite go with your eyes, but, oh, well." She paused, then attempted to arch an eyebrow (her eyebrow didn't arch, and she had no idea what _did_ happen—she couldn't account for a movement that quite matched that particular sensation). "By the by, I don't suppose you know any good mind games for passing time in the hospital wing."

Zarekael made no answer.

---

Dumbledore had made a clean sweep of Meli's favorite bookshelf, bringing to her most of her best-loved volumes. Among these were nearly all of Charles Dickens' novels, and she found herself in the mood for that peculiar author at the moment. A necessary first move was to find _Great Expectations_ and fling it (after a few comical mishaps, thanks to her battle damage) as far away from her as possible. She had only bought the book because it was required for a university class, and she had only kept it because no one would buy it from her and because she believed that books, even exceptionally bad ones (which, admittedly, this wasn't) were too sacred to be burned.

With that ritual completed, she was free to work her way through the rest of the collection. Within twenty-four hours, courtesy of her being a fast reader, her _not_ being tired, and her having nothing better to do, she had quite a stack of already-read books: _Oliver Twist, A Christmas Carol, Hard Times, _and_ A Tale of Two Cities._ She was now making steady progress through _Our Mutual Friend_, after which she planned to read _Bleak House,_ and, due to lack of sleep, lack of conscious human company, and lack of a break from Dickens, she was beginning to show slight signs of mental stress.

So it was that she took to apostrophizing her comatose roommate and, when she stumbled over a particularly amusing passage (which became more and more frequent as her faculties slid slowly into the Twilight Zone), reading aloud to him. Thus Snape found her the evening of the day after Zarekael had been admitted.

Meli didn't hear the door open, and she neither saw nor heard Snape slip in. She was busily engaged in reading aloud:

"…But there's nothing like work. Look at the bees."  
"I beg your pardon," returned Eugene, with a reluctant smile, "but will you excuse my mentioning that I always protest against being referred to the bees?"  
"Do you!" said Mr. Boffin.  
"I object on principle," said Eugene, "as a biped—"  
"As a what?" asked Mr. Boffin.  
"As a two-footed creature;—I object on principle, as a two-footed creature, to being constantly referred to insects and four-footed creatures. I object to being required to model my proceedings according to the proceedings of the bee, or the dog, or the spider, or the camel. I fully admit that the camel, for instance, is an excessively temperate person; but he has several stomachs to entertain himself with, and I have only one. Besides, I am not fitted up with a convenient cool cellar to keep my drink in."  
"But I said, you know," urged Mr. Boffin, rather at a loss for an answer, "the bee."  
"Exactly. And may I represent to you that it's injudicious to say the bee? For the whole case is assumed. Conceding for a moment that there is any analogy between a bee and a man in a shirt and pantaloons (which I deny), and that it is settled that the man is to learn from the bee (which I also deny), the question still remains, What is he to learn? To imitate? Or to avoid? When your friends the bees worry themselves to that highly fluttered extent about their sovereign, and become perfectly distracted touching the slightest monarchical movement, are we men to learn the greatness of Tuft-hunting, or the littleness of the Court Circular? I am not clear, Mr. Boffin, but that the hive may be satirical."  
"At all events, they work," said Mr. Boffin.  
"Ye-es," returned Eugene, disparagingly, "they work; but don't you think they overdo it? They work so much more than they need—they make so much more than they can eat—they are so incessantly boring and buzzing at their one idea till Death comes upon them—that don't you think they overdo it? And are human labourers to have no holidays, because of the bees? And am I never to have a change of air, because the bees don't? Mr. Boffin, I think honey excellent at breakfast; but regarded in the light of my conventional schoolmaster and moralist, I protest against the tyrannical humbug of your friend the bee. With the highest respect for you."

Having finished reading off this lengthy passage, Meli turned to the silent Zarekael with a thoughtful countenance. "Somehow, I doubt Mr. Eugene Wrayburn would approve of my work ethic," she remarked. "Though I believe he would get on quite well with a number of people I knew at university." She sighed, shook her head, and returned to her book, all without noticing Snape standing in front of the room's closed door, a strange mixture of amusement and concern on his face.

"I see you're keeping busy," he commented dryly.

Meli very nearly jumped through the ceiling at the sound of another voice. She had made great improvements in motor control over the past day, so _Our Mutual Friend_ did not go the way of _Great Expectations_, but it was a near miss. She came in for a landing, then grinned madly. "Severus! How are you?" She surveyed his figure briefly, then sobered a touch. "You look terrible."

"And you sound more like a mental patient than a corpse," he rejoined sardonically. "You _do_ know that Zarekael's unconscious, don't you?"

Her features brightened. "Oh, you _noticed_!" she crowed. "And here I thought he was laying there like this"—here she did a masterful impression of a dead basset hound—"for the fun of it!"

Snape was nonplused, but more amused than ever. "When did you last have a visitor?" he asked.

"Umm…" Meli's brow furrowed in thought. "Dumbledore came 'round about five this morning." She consulted her watch. "Twelve hours, then." She paused, looking a bit worried. "Only twelve hours? I got through _Hard Times_ and _A Tale of Two Cities_ in that time; I've been reading fast, then."

"All Dickens, I see."

"Naturally," she replied sagely.

"Too much of anything, even Charles Dickens, can be unhealthy," Snape told her, smirking. "Perhaps you should consider _Pride and Prejudice_ or_ Jane Eyre_ as an alternative to _Barnaby Rudge._"

Meli shrugged. "Perhaps. I've seven hundred pages left before that decision."

Snape eyed her with some concern, then evidently decided to change the subject. "How is Zarekael?"

Now she did sober. "I hope he's only tired," she replied. "He hasn't come to. Sometimes I have to watch and listen fit to give myself a migraine, to tell that he's breathing at all." She set her jaw with a firmness peculiar to incredibly stubborn Gryffindors. "He's all right, though. I refuse to let myself believe otherwise."


	2. Recalled to Life

****

Chapter 2: Recalled to Life

Meli took Snape's good advice and traded in Dickens for Austen at the end of _Our Mutual Friend._ She progressed rapidly through _Pride and Prejudice_ and _Persuasion_, then, faced with the unenviable choice between _Emma_ and _Sense and Sensibility_, both of which featured heroines she despised, she eventually chose the latter because it also featured a heroine she didn't mind so much.

Unfortunately, she had quite forgotten just how thoroughly one sister's stupidity overshadowed the other's intelligence.

Also unfortunately, Meli was as short on human company while reading Austen as she had been while reading Dickens, so her sanity was not much improved for the change. By the third chapter into the third Austen book, she had abandoned the practice of reading aloud to her comatose roommate and instead began a running commentary on the story, accompanied where appropriate (or not) by snorts, rolled eyes, and whacking her forehead with the book whenever someone did something particularly idiotic.

She became so thoroughly involved in her reading that she missed several subtle clues that things were changing in the real world. Sounds of quiet shifting were drowned out by an eloquent tirade against Willoughby, and slight alterations in breathing were lost amid a rant about the thick-headedness of Edward Ferrars. In fact, had a rather boring portion of narrative not happened along at precisely the right time, she might very well have missed Zarekael waking up. She had fallen silent, however, just in time for him to let out a moan of pain as he came fully awake.

Meli turned suddenly at the sound and found two eerie blue eyes staring at her in open puzzlement. She grinned, her literary insanity temporarily forgotten in her relief at his being conscious.

"Welcome back!" she said cheerily.

Zarekael furrowed his brow and looked a little worried at her hearty greeting, but he managed to approximate a smile with his eyes. "Thank you," he replied dryly. He paused, evidently coming to some sort of realization. It didn't take Meli long to figure out what it was that he'd remembered when he suddenly turned his arms inward.

_The Dark Marks,_ she thought_. Well, when in doubt, play dumb to save face_. She cleared her throat. "I see you've noticed the draft," she remarked. "I'm lucky enough to be in long sleeves." She offered him half a smile. "Since Poppy so meanly deprived you of your wand, would you like me to lengthen your sleeves for you?"

Her nonchalance communicated what her words did not: a reminder that she already knew about the Marks and that they were still friends anyway. Zarekael sighed. "There is no need," he told her. "I am what I am."

Meli arched an eyebrow. "Cold?" She shrugged. "Just as well, really. With my battle damage still tweaking, I'd be more likely to accidentally lengthen something else." It belatedly occurred to her what she'd said. "Referring to your _nose_, of course," she amended lamely.

Zarekael managed a look of amusement. "Judging by your high spirits," he observed, "I assume we won."

"Indeed we did," Meli replied.

"How are Severus and Dumbledore?" he asked quickly, then added, almost as an afterthought, "And Harry?"

Meli smiled. "Dumbledore's fine, Harry's never been better—a little adrenaline never hurt anyone—and Severus was well enough to sneak out of the hospital wing right under Poppy's nose. Oh, and I'm dead."

He smirked, then slowly sobered. "How long have I been out?"

Meli's own smile faded. "About three days," she answered. "You were very tired."

"Better tired than dead," Zarekael said sardonically.

"No kidding," she rejoined. "Severus seems to think it's taken a toll on my sanity."

Zarekael shook his head. "So what exactly happened?" he asked.

Meli shrugged. "Damned if I know," she replied. "I can tell you why I'm dead, but I was masquerading as a corpse when the battle ended, and no one's had time to tell me about it. What I _do_ know is that Dirk Pierce killed Collum Fell, I killed Dirk Pierce, and some bloody fool tried and failed to kill me. So to spare him the trouble of finishing the job, I stupefied myself using Collum's wand, which turned out to be broken nearly in half, which is why I'm now here, recovering in the oppressive domain of a certain overzealous mediwitch." She grinned. "I'm fine. How are you?"

Zarekael stared wonderingly at her. "If one may inquire," he said slowly, "have you been reading Dickens this whole time?"

She smirked. "I see you've noticed my stack. Yes, I have, except for when I was reading Austen." She tilted her head inquisitively. "So now you know why _I'm_ doing time. What are _you_ in for?"

He sighed. "I don't remember," he replied. "I was upstairs, on the ground floor…then two Death Eaters came to report…that Severus had betrayed us. He had reached Harry Potter first, then barricaded himself and Harry in the dungeons and activated a series of death traps. They hadn't told anyone else—they came to me first, expecting me to tell the Dark Lord myself."

"But you didn't, of course," Meli interposed.

"Of course not," he said. "I made a show of taking it personally and ordered them to lead the way. Once we were lost in the scuffle of the battle, I stabbed one and broke the other's neck, then went on alone."

His countenance darkened in appreciation of a peculiar irony. "As fate would have it, the one I stabbed was Peter Pettigrew. If his body was found and identified, I may very well have cleared Sirius Black."

Meli shook her head empathetically. "We all have our crosses to bear," she told him philosophically. "It's not your fault, Ruthvencairn—you couldn't have known."

He smirked, then returned to his narrative. "When I reached the part of the dungeons Severus was in, he was defending himself against several Death Eaters. I didn't see Harry—he must have been even further down."

Zarekael paused and furrowed his brow. "I remember seeing Severus take a hit and fall down…and I remember calling the wind…then nothing."

Meli arched her eyebrow, intrigued. "Calling the wind?" she echoed. "What—"

"Ah, I see you're awake, Zarekael."

Both of them looked in the direction of the voiceand foundnot only Dumbledore but also Snape standing in the doorway. Meli's pre-existing mental condition resurfaced, and she graced them with a grin worthy of the Cheshire cat.

"Isn't it wonderful?" she all but crowed. "Now I have someone to _converse_ with! Up until now, it was just me, my book, and my murderous plot against Marianne Dashwood!"

At this extraordinary declaration, Zarekael looked confused, Dumbledore was amused, and Snape, to all appearances, simply mused. Meli, for her part, closed the accursed tome in question and tossed it in the general direction of her already-read pile. She landed a direct hit and sent the tower tumbling to scatter Jane Austen and Charles Dickens all over the floor.

"_Score!_" she cried, pumping a fist in the air in triumph—at least, that was the intention. Her fist pumped once, then performed a strange sort of dance that nearly put a hole in the wall, a bruise over her cheek, and a dent in the mattress.

Snape smirked. "Well, _one_ of your is showing some improvement, at least," he remarked.

"Indeed," Zarekael replied, also smirking.

Meli folded her hands in her lap and looked to Dumbledore. "So we'd gotten to the part about 'calling the wind' but not past it," she said. "My curiosity is piqued, so I hope you don't mind my returning to the earlier subject."

Zarekael cleared his throat a bit uncertainly. "Each of the Ruling Houses is identified with one of the elements," he explained. "Dar Jerrikhan is the wind. Of the four elements, I find the wind to be most…responsive."

"Particularly when in a rage," Dumbledore added.

Meli had heard about Zarekael's strange rages, but she had never witnessed one. It seemed that when he became unusually angry, Zarekael slipped into some sort of fit that increased his physical and magical power and usually ended in some sort of violent outburst—one of his milder rages had, in fact, resulted in the telekinetic destruction of Gilderoy Lockhart's granite desk. It was said that the only sure warning of a rage was the changing of his eye color from blue to green.

She raised her eyebrows. "If it's not improper to ask," she said carefully, "_were_ you in a rage?"

Zarekael scrounged up a shred of amusement. "Yes," he replied definitively. "Even before Severus was hit."

"It was a magical rage," Dumbledore told her. "I'm sure you sensed the draw of power?"

Realization struck as that piece fell into place. "The shifting I felt," she breathed. "It's like you were drawing from all of us…but it wasn't steady at first." She turned, wide-eyed, to face him. "_Tu Quoque_ isn't supposed to be able to replicate a deadly curse, but it did—there was a surge just then…" She shook her head. "And then a surge the other way when that idiot tossed a _Kedavra_. Even _if_ he'd hit me dead-on, I'd still be sucking air."

Snape nodded thoughtfully. "That _would_ explain it," he murmured.

"When Severus fell," Dumbledore continued, "the next thing we knew was that a gale-force wind was sweeping through the corridors and whirling 'round Zarekael. And then came the fire—a solid wall of green fire surrounding the attacking Death Eaters."

From the look on Zarekael's face, this was as much news to him as it was to Meli.

"It was no ordinary fire, though," Snape said wryly. "It either blocked or absorbed the spells they threw at it." He shook his head. "By the end of it, the Death Eaters who weren't dead had no memory of the event, which, as you can imagine, was for the best. Zarekael collapsed, unconscious…and didn't wake up until today. The Dark Lord called a retreat, so I levitated Zarekael and led a handful of survivors away, to all appearances doing nothing more than following orders. As I was the only one who remembered what had happened, it was a simple enough matter to feign amnesia." He furrowed his brow. "And then all that remained was to withstand the Dark Lord's anger and bring Zarekael back here."

Zarekael had paled visibly during Snape's narrative. "How…how many did I kill?" he asked quietly, his voice ragged.

Snape set his jaw and looked to Dumbledore, who swallowed visibly. "About…twenty," the headmaster replied gently.

Zarekael closed his eyes and went deathly still, and Meli felt a pang at the sight. His rages obviously deprived him of the calculating control that usually governed his actions, and she imagined, not without cause, that he probably feared that such a loss of control might cause him to harm or kill someone. _That would be my worst fear,_ she thought soberly. _What do you do when you can't even remember what you've done and you know you've got blood on your hands? How can you look at yourself in the mirror when it wasn't your deliberate choice—when circumstances just take over and you're along for the ride?_

It occurred to her then that that was what had happened in the confrontation with Pierce, but she wasn't yet prepared to deal with that. She had buried it in Dickens, buried it in Austen, buried it in curiosity about what else had happened in the battle, and as far as she was concerned, she'd go on burying it until the end of time.

Snape shook his head wonderingly. "Do you remember _anything_ about what you did?" he asked.

Zarekael sighed. "I have no fucking idea what I did," he replied.

They all stared at him for a moment before Meli ventured to ask, "Did you just say 'fuck'?"

He rolled his head toward her and gave her a patient look. "Yes."

"_Sweet!_" she crowed with a grin. Snape snorted quietly, while Dumbledore just shook his head.

No one seemed to know quite what to say after that; silence descended over the four of them for a seemingly interminable period, until it became nearly oppressive enough for Meli to speak in spite of her better judgment. Fortunately, Dumbledore broke the silence first.

"Well, there are things that need to be seen to," he said quietly. "There will be time for us to talk further later on; for the moment, please excuse me."

Snape murmured a similar excuse, then followed Dumbledore from the room.

Once they were gone, Zarekael closed his eyes and while, judging by his breathing, he didn't fall asleep, Meli was not inclined to call his bluff. She watched him empathetically for a moment, then set her jaw and deliberately picked up _Dracula_.

The time for trivial stories had passed.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Special thanks to Bet for helping with the triple_-mused_ construction in reaction to Meli's line about Marianne Dashwood. Thanks also to my former English teacher Mr. Parrott (should he ever come across this story) for unknowingly test-marketing the line about _dear_ Marianne back in the day.  
AE


	3. A Successor

****

Chapter 3: A Successor

Meli had plenty of time for thinking in between Mina Harker's compiled papers, and even though Zarekael was not available for conversation, her sanity showed a rather dangerous improvement for which she was indebted to more than just the writings of Bram Stoker. Time had stood still while Zarekael was unconscious, but his revival had restarted the clock, making her acutely aware that sooner or later she would have to leave the hospital wing and, thanks to an unnamed but hopefully very dead Death Eater, she had no life to which to return. That meant making a new life for herself, and she wanted very much for that life to keep her far too busy to think.

She didn't want to remember that Collum was dead, and she most certainly didn't want to remember that Pierce was dead, too. The first required her to acknowledge that she had seen one close friend murder another, and the second demanded that she admit to herself that she had murdered an old friend.

__

Former friend, she amended firmly, clenching her teeth and flipping a page. Pierce had long ago ceased to be her friend—or Collum's or Crim's. He had murdered Crim in cold blood and for no other purpose than to further his own ambition, and he'd had no problem murdering Collum for even less reason than that.

It hadn't been murder when she killed him; it had been survival. It had been her or Pierce, and if Pierce had survived, he might very well have been able to harm Harry Potter—or even, now that she thought about it, blow Snape and Zarekael's covers because he would very probably have been outside of Zarekael's blast radius, and he would have known how best to get out of the dungeons without being taken out by the Aurors.

__

It was the right thing to do.

Meli squeezed her eyes shut until white geometrics danced through the black field of her vision and her head began to pound. When she reopened her eyes to look at the book, she found that three pages or more had passed since the scene she last remembered.

She sighed and set aside the book; there was no sense in pretending anymore.

How long had it been since she'd slept without the help of a potion? She couldn't remember offhand, but she knew with certainty that it had been before Voldemort's attack on the school. The two or three times she'd managed to drift off since then, she'd wakened as soon as the dreams started.

It had been hard enough sleeping through Crimson's blood-spattered face swimming before her eyes; two more faces added to that were too much altogether.

The Skulkers were all dead—three in truth and one on the basis of a technicality—and the war continued without them. And yet it didn't, for there was one Skulker still standing, and she was the one who could most hurt Voldemort…and more to the point, she had a vested interest in hurting both his cause and the man himself.

__

How does someone neither living nor dead best strike out at a Dark Lord?

She leaned back against the head of the bed and let her eyes wander aimlessly around the room. They settled eventually on the Dickens books that still lay scattered on the floor where they had fallen, and the last one she'd read caught her attention.

__

Our Mutual Friend…the tale of a man mistakenly ruled dead under suspicious circumstances. John Harmon had not been a great hero by any definition that wasn't strictly Dickensian, but he had taken shrewd advantage of the limbo in which fate had placed him, both to exonerate a man wrongly accused of his murder and to prove the quality of a materialistic young woman. He'd had the perfect cover for his operations, for no one would believe that a dead man was doing anything but pushing up daisies.

So what could a dead Skulker do for the Order of the Phoenix?

__

How many characters are there in that book? she wondered idly. _I bet I could use a different name from _OMF_ every day for a year and never once repeat—_

She stopped short, a strange and intriguing idea taking root. Someone whose face _had_ to be hidden could keep to one face…or she could have multiple faces, and no one would be the wiser. And a person with many faces could hide in plain sight and act with temerity.

She could do anything for the cause, short of infiltrating the Death Eaters, and because she could be so bold, because she could conduct one-woman hit-and-fade operations, she could undermine Voldemort and, as a side benefit, drive him absolutely nuts in the process.

More importantly, though, she could be consistently active in the war now, rather than taking a sideline position. Subtle and deliberate she might be, but in the end, she was a Gryffindor, and her primary nature was to charge in with guns blazing and wreak as much havoc as possible.

__

All right, then. So how can a woman of many faces wreak the most havoc under the circumstances?

For that answer, she suspected she would have to consult Dumbledore. He didn't know everything by any means, but he would surely be able to find a use for a spook—and he would certainly agree that almost anything was better than Meli hiding out any longer than necessary in the hospital wing.

She would have to be careful, of course; if she came into contact with anyone who thought her dead, she would have to take especial care to be sure that they never suspected her of being someone they knew. Passing acquaintances would be no problem, but the true risk lay in running into more observant people who had known her well, like Andrea Underhill—

Meli grinned suddenly as her thoughts turned a sudden corner. Andrea Underhill's day job was as an Auror and an FBI agent, and she moonlighted as an Eraser. How many people did the Order rescue and disappear—and as Voldemort continued to come to prominence, how many more would need to be disappeared in the future? Andrea wasn't officially in the Order, and even if she had been, she wouldn't have been able to handle as many cases as Dumbledore might very well toss her way; such work would be a full-time job.

__

And if there was an official Order Eraser, I'd know about it, Meli thought coolly. _Even if all I had to go on were rumors and whispered conversations, I would know; we all would._

That meant, then, that there was a possible vacancy, and while she didn't have all of Andrea's government contacts and connections, she was at least as resourceful and, in her humble opinion, a bit more creative than that worthy Auror was. It would be necessary for such an agent to be known only by a code name, which suited her just fine, and if she played her cards right, no one need ever know even that she was female, much less details of her actual identity.

As a student at Hogwarts, Meli had drawn the most academic attention for her skill at Potions, but her greatest gifts actually lay in the disciplines of Charms and Transfiguration. Knowing that anything outstanding about her might eventually be reported to Voldemort, she had intentionally flown under radar during class, practicing by herself during her free time. While McGonagall and Flitwick had probably not known her reasoning, they respected her evident wishes and drew no attention to her, though her marks, both in class and on her standardized tests, spoke quite eloquently for her abilities.

The grand melding of those two disciplines was the tricky art of _glamourie_—appearance charms—and, simply for the joy of the challenge, Meli had worked at it until she had mastered it. Like obscure duelist's hexes, she took everything she learned, developed, and stowed away in her steel trap of a mind, and treasured it for a rainy day. The rain had called out _Tu Quoque_ to play, and now it looked as if _glamourie_ was up for its turn.

Creating identities would be no problem at all; she had the full dramatis personae of her books to help her with that, and as she had observed, just one Dickens work by itself would provide her with well over two dozen names to start with. And, come to think of it, several of the women in _Our Mutual Friend_ married in the course of the story, which really meant that she could pull _two_ names from those characters—four for Bella, whose husband used two pseudonyms in addition to his true name.

Meli permitted herself a reptilian smile as she picked up _Dracula_ once more (she could pull at least three names from _Dracula_). Suddenly limbo didn't seem like such a bad place to be.

---

Dumbledore returned about three hours after Meli's epiphany and found her grinning madly over what proved to be Dr. Van Helsing's soliloquy on blood and blooms.

"I see you've traded in Austen for more serious fare," he remarked sardonically.

"The problem with _Frankenstein _is that Mary Shelley had no sense of humor," Meli told him philosophically. "Stoker managed to convey the horror without giving the reader suicidal tendencies. That doesn't make him less amusing than Jane Austen, but it does cause the reader to appreciate his humor all the more." She arched an eyebrow. "How are things back at the ranch?"

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Things are settling down again," he replied. "There still remains a great deal to do, but people are much more optimistic—"

He was interrupted by a sudden stirring from Zarekael's side of the room. He and Meli turned to find that the apprentice was not only awake but sitting up in bed, his eyes fixed on the door and a hand clapped over the Mark on his left arm.

Meli swallowed. "He's not…calling you, surely?"

The apprentice shook his head. "I have to go," he stated.

"Zarekael," Dumbledore began, "he cannot expect you to be recovered—"

The younger man cut him off with a look. "He will keep calling until I respond," he told the headmaster. "It's better that I go now, as I am, than that I wait until I'm fully healthy."

"Can you even stand on your own?" Meli demanded. Granted, Poppy had said that Zarekael was in far better shape than she was, but he still looked one step removed from death itself. Assuming he could get past Poppy, he might very well arrive in Voldemort's presence only to collapse at the Dark Lord's feet.

"I _must_ go," Zarekael insisted firmly.

Before anything further could be said, the door to the room opened to admit Snape, who was carrying what looked like a very full satchel. He closed the door behind him, set down the satchel on the only chair, and drew from it a set of very familiar black robes, which he handed to Zarekael.

The door opened again just then, and Poppy stormed in, jaw clenched and eyes blazing. It seemed that she had seen Snape coming in and hadn't needed much help to figure out what the satchel was for.

"This is absolutely _not_ going to happen!" she snapped as soon as the door closed behind her. "You can just tell You-Know-Who that Zarekael is still unconscious because I will _not_ permit him to leave. He's in no condition to go and you know it!"

"Poppy," Snape growled, "don't."

"Don't what?" she retorted heatedly. "Don't protect my patients? Don't protect you from a sadistic madman who doesn't care if you're healthy as long as you're useful to him? Don't protect you from yourselves when we all know you'd be perfectly happy to run yourselves to the ground for the cause? Well, I'm sorry, Severus Snape, but that just happens to be my job, and I refuse to do otherwise!"

"Severus, you _can't_ be serious!" Meli chimed in. "Even if he makes it there in one piece, he won't stand a chance with Voldemort. You know he's going to be punished!"

"We all were," Snape told her coldly. "And the longer Zarekael delays, the worse his punishment will be in the end." He turned burning eyes on Poppy. "I'm sorry," he said through his teeth, "but we do not have the _luxury_ of ignoring the summons. If you think it'll be bad now, how much worse will it be when the Dark Lord figures out—as he will—that Zarekael was conscious? This is _nothing_ to what that would be." With those words he pulled his own robes out of the satchel and donned them without further comment.

"He is _not_ setting foot outside of this room!" Poppy persisted stubbornly. "I don't care how urgent you think this is—Zarekael is in absolutely no condition to be going for a stroll through the Sculpture Garden, much less to a meeting with You-Know-Who!"

Snape narrowed his eyes. "That is _not_ your decision," he told her through his teeth. "Now stand aside, or be pushed aside."

Zarekael chose that moment to stand up, or rather he managed to achieve something vaguely resembling vertical status, which was no sooner accomplished than he sank heavily back onto the bed with a groan. Judging by the superior look Poppy gave Snape, she obviously considered the argument officially over; she ought to have known better. Zarekael set his teeth and, with his father's help, again stood and, leaning heavily on Snape, managed to keep to his feet. The Potions master leveled a silencing glare at Poppy, then looked defiantly at the others.

Meli turned to Dumbledore. "Are you _really_ going to let them go through with this?" she asked, hearing a frantic note in her voice.

The headmaster firmly set his jaw and made no reply, but he also made no move to stop the two spies.

__

Poppy will manage to stop them somehow, Meli thought, more out of desperation than anything else. After all, if Dumbledore backed them, or at least didn't back Poppy, there was little the mediwitch could really do. And as for anyone else standing in their way, the two of them apparently didn't mind the prospect of marching straight through the hospital wing in full Death Eater regalia, so she doubted that the idea of other resistance bothered them at all. In the case of a Gryffindor, it would have indicated a lack of planning; in the case of Slytherins in general, and these two in particular, it meant that they had specifically planned to deal with such a possibility.

Snape proved her suspicions right. Once he and Zarekael were ready to depart, he reached into the satchel one more time and pulled out, of all things, a small, hard-bound volume of poems by Edgar Allan Poe. He moved as if he were handing the book to Zarekael, but as soon as his son took hold of it, he muttered, "Eulalie."

Before Meli could so much as wonder what the point of that message might be, the two Death Eaters and the book they held disappeared from sight.

"A portkey," she realized aloud.

Poppy glared venomously at Dumbledore, then made a thoroughly ungracious exit, slamming the door as a final indictment.

Dumbledore shook his head grimly, then offered the remaining patient a sympathetic smile. "They had to go, Meli," he told her quietly.

"I know," she conceded miserably. "But that doesn't mean I have to like it."

The headmaster shrugged, then, with a calmness that must have required a great deal of effort, stepped to the chair, moved the satchel to the floor beside Zarekael's bed, and seated himself in its place. "You may not consider this the best time for conversation," he said, "but there are a few things to be discussed, and now is as good a time as any."

She arched an eyebrow. "Hadn't you rather knock me out before Zarekael appears before Voldemort?" she countered. "I thought my voice was best left unheard until I'd been recalled to life."

"Voldemort will not subject him to the Cruciatus," Dumbledore informed her. "Not this time, anyway. He values Zarekael as a servant, and even as angry as he doubtless is, he won't be foolish enough to do anything that might limit or end Zarekael's usefulness to him."

"How comforting," Meli commented darkly.

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. "I half expect that the two of them will return within the hour," he continued. "Zarekael a little worse for the wear, certainly, but far better off than he would be if he delayed any longer than necessary."

Meli sighed. "All right, then," she allowed. "I'll submit to your expert opinion for the moment. What do we have to discuss in the meantime?"

"Well, there are your funeral arrangements to be seen to," he replied, his eyes beginning to twinkle again. "I'm afraid Minerva has been let in on the grand secret, as she'll be creating the simulacrum for cremation. She hopes to have it completed and ready for burning by breakfast time tomorrow."

Meli smirked. "I always had the impression that she wanted to kill me for some of my antics," she quipped. "Now she's finally got her chance."

Dumbledore smiled slightly. "I doubt she sees it in quite that light," he returned. "I shall have to point it out to her."

"I'm sure she'll appreciate it." She raised her eyebrows. "What else is there to see to?"

He cleared his throat. "Have you any wish to follow in the footsteps of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn?" he inquired, with something that looked suspiciously like a smirk.

Meli grinned. "Attend my own funeral?" she suggested. "Absolutely! I could be a juggler that comes in and does a splendid tap-dance routine atop the casket while—"

"While the Camerons and Fells look on?" Dumbledore countered pointedly.

"Oh." She sobered abruptly. "Well, when you put it in _that_ light…I suppose I could sing."

"Sing?"

She nodded. "Oh, yes. No one who knew me very well at all would think it a proper funeral if I wasn't seen off with a verse or two of Burns."

Dumbledore looked thoughtfully at her. "The only difficulty there," he said at last, "is that your voice is rather distinctive and quite well-known."

That much was quite true; anyone who had attended school during the Skulkers' reign of terror, or anyone who had been present for her performance at the Halloween Ball less than a year before, would agree that Meli Ebony's Puckish voice was unmistakable. No one who had witnessed one of her songs would be likely to forget either the voice or the one who produced it.

"Ah, well," she sighed, "there I must confess to having deceived you all. You probably think I can't sing in any other way."

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows a touch. "Can you?"

She smiled slyly at him. "Of course I can," she answered. "Do you honestly think someone like me would let any potential abilities lie fallow? Every little odd thing I can either pick up or develop, I do."

"Very well, then," the headmaster said. "We'll put you down for a song. You'll need an alias, of course—"

"Lizzie Hexam," she told him promptly.

There was a pause while Dumbledore tried to assimilate her quick reply. "That was very…sudden," he remarked, then, as realization probably struck, he smiled. "Of course," he said. "Lizzie Hexam, the waterman's daughter. I had forgotten you recent venture into Dickens."

"Well, that particular novel has inspired me to formulate a new ambition," Meli informed him. "Have you any need for a vocational Eraser?"

His eyebrows climbed nearly to his hairline. "A person charged with disappearing others?" he replied.

Meli nodded. "Someone who does full-time what Andrea does in her off-hours," she clarified.

He smiled wryly. "I don't know that it would be a full-time position," he answered, "but I am sure we could find work for you." He furrowed his brow. "If I may inquire…how did _Our Mutual Friend_ inspire this ambition?"

She smirked. "Well, it occurred to me that one person with many faces—John Harmon, for instance—can accomplish a great deal, whether good or bad, and can disappear quite effectively."

"Yes," Dumbledore mused. "So he could. Am I to assume, then, that you would be using multiple identities?"

"One would be too easily traceable," she pointed out. "If I used a different face and name every time, the only common thread would be whatever code name was assigned to me."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled, not merrily as they usually did, but in rather a conspiratorial manner. "And the more untraceable you are," he murmured, "the more you would annoy Voldemort."

Meli didn't even bother trying to hide the fact that the possibility delighted her; instead she smiled thinly. "I want to serve the cause," she said frankly. "And if in the process I can get under his skin and irritate him past the point of rational thought, so much the better."

"You would need help," Dumbledore said. "At least one full-time assistant. You'll also need a base of operations—Hogwarts is too obvious and, in its own way, far too public. It needs a more remote location. And then, of course, there is the code name to think of." He looked expectantly to her.

Meli shrugged. "That's one thing I'm afraid I haven't thought on," she admitted. "A standard pseudonym, with a given name and a surname, is right out—too easily traced. I'd prefer something simple, something that's more of a description than a name."

Dumbledore looked thoughtfully at her. "It sounds as if you plan to be a blank slate of sorts," he said.

She gave him a reptilian smile. "Tabula Rasa is rather too long," she replied. "Shall we shorten it to Rasa and call it good?"

"Rasa it is, then."


	4. Laid to Rest

****

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Yes, my friends it is Super Bowl Sunday, and guess who's _not_ watching either the big game or the commercials! Call me narrow-minded if you must, but I'm one of those oddities in America who actually believes there are better things to do with my time. But before we get to the feature presentation, here's a couple of messages for my reviewers:

Krew- Yes, I _love_ Dickens. In fact, my beta-reader had to sit me down and have a talk with me about being a little too Dickensian in my writing style (don't worry, the worst offenders are not in this story, and as John Cleese would say, "Well, I got better!"—not that Dickens turned me into a newt). And have no fear, the set-up is almost done. In fact, this is the chapter in which Meli leaves the hospital wing! She's free, free as a bird—minus the feathers…and stuff.

Cinammon- All I can say is **WOW.** I am truly humbled by your review. Sorry for keeping you up 'til all hours, but I'm glad you liked it. A couple of things: First, how do we know Dumbledore's not a little bit daft in his off-hours? It's a rough job being headmaster of a school like Hogwarts, and there are times when I think he's a little nutters in JKR (in a good way, of course). I will admit, though, that that particular scene is one that Snarky and I came up with in the wee hours of the morning, which might account for it. Secondly, I used to be a full-out Gryffindor, but the influences of my grandmother and the very Slytherin Snarky have delightfully corrupted me, so I don't know anymore where I'd be Sorted; I think Slytherin would be kinda fun, though. Thirdly, I do apologize for devastating you over Meli's death; originally, the first chapter of "Dream" was the last chapter of "Selkirk", but I moved it when I actually posted "Dream" because it worked better in the sequel. I'm glad you kept reading, though, and found out the happy facts of it. Fourthly, stay tuned for the rest of Sharpie's story; I thought it was finished myself, and then I had a rather inconvenient epiphany, right in the middle of serving on a jury—I do not recommend having epiphanies during jury duty. The judge gets a little annoyed when a juror's eyes suddenly glaze over. And lastly, in the matter of Rasa's full-time assistant…Sorry, had to wait out a bout of maniacal laughter…Ahem. You'll get to meet him in Chapter 5, and I don't think he'll disappoint…_snicker._

Thanks for the reviews, and now without further ado, here's Chapter 4.

AE

****

Chapter 4: Laid to Rest

Zarekael and Snape did, indeed, return within the hour, and while neither looked particularly thrilled with his lot in life, they didn't seem too much worse for the trip, all things considered. Zarekael, not surprisingly, fell immediately on his bed and sank into an exhausted sleep not long afterward, leaving Snape and Dumbledore to remove his robes. The Potions master, also not surprisingly, preferred not to stay and socialize, so, after replacing all evidence of his and Zarekael's recent activities in the satchel, he departed in silence.

-

Meli's funeral was scheduled for a week and a half after her death, which gave her time to finish her recovery and actually be at liberty for a few days beforehand. She was still a little twitchy, but Poppy's constitution wouldn't stand for her and Zarekael's joint presence in the hospital wing for an hour longer.

Zarekael left first, and Meli had no doubt that his departure made a serious impression on a number of people. It was widely known that her body was being kept in that room until it could be cremated, and her erstwhile roommate left quite calmly, apparently not at all bothered by the presence of a supposed corpse the next bed over.

Meli herself left a day later, smuggled out under an invisibility cloak she suspected of being "borrowed" from Harry Potter without his knowledge, and took up residence in a remote section of the dungeons. Dumbledore had promised to get back to her as soon as there was work for her, but, understandably, there wasn't exactly a caseload ready and waiting to be picked up. That meant that, when she didn't have visitors, she had a great deal of spare time, which meant that her choices were still reading or sleeping. The only time it was safe for her to leave her rooms was at night, which she did at every opportunity, and it was in that way that she inadvertently stumbled over the Weasleys' graduation prank in progress.

She enjoyed the show very much, but it threw her into a despondent mood. The Weasley twins meant well, of course, and they certainly couldn't have known that one of the Skulkers was watching their every move…but it recalled to her the old days, when life had been simple, all four of them had been alive, and friends truly were friends.

Dumbledore, perhaps hoping to pull her out of her apparent depression, assigned her to a pre-doomed mission with Snape, on the grounds that she might be able to help the Potions master remain calm. The one disadvantage was that she no longer had a wand, for, not having expected to survive her own death, she had willed hers away to Andrea.

She managed to turn this to her advantage, however, and used it as an excuse to get outside the castle. Snape lent her his wand to create her very first Rasa _glamourie_, and with that identity in place, she apparated to Diagon Alley to buy herself a new one.

-

Meli stepped into Ollivander's with the same quiet reverence she had exhibited seventeen years before, but her soft step served no practical purpose; Ollivander heard her just as clearly now as he had then. He smiled at her from behind the counter.

"Good morning," he said politely. He did not use her name; he did not know her name.

"Good morning," she replied, a note of uncertainty to her voice. "Mr. Ollivander?" She tipped her head inquisitively to one side, dislodging a pile of red-gold curls from her shoulder and gazing at him with bright green eyes.

He nodded. "I am, indeed." An odd gleam of interest touched his silver eyes. "I judge by your accent that you are not a local?"

Meli smiled slightly. "Guilty as charged," she lied, sharply cornering the _r_ in the last word. "I just moved here to take care of my cousin, but her house is a virtual death trap. I tripped and fell yesterday and broke my wand in three places."

"Ah." Ollivander took a long, measuring look at the short redhead he saw before him. "Yes, my American counterpart is still learning some of the more subtle secrets of making durable wands."

Meli shrugged. "I don't think anything short of an _Impervius_ charm could have saved even a durable wand," she said ruefully. "It was a pretty nasty fall."

Ollivander nodded again, but she had no frame of reference for knowing what he might be nodding _at_. There was no tracking the thoughts and ideas that passed through the mind behind those eyes.

"Well," he said at last, "it must, of course, be replaced. Let us see what we shall find."

And now came the hardest part. It had taken two hours to find her first wand, and it was generally accepted that replacement wands were always harder to find. Her use of an appearance charm, while necessary, would probably make the process even more difficult.

Ollivander handed her at least a dozen wands, none of which were right, and then suddenly he paused, his eerie eyes peering at Meli and perhaps even peering _through_ her.

"I don't think I caught your name," he said slowly.

Meli ducked her head sheepishly, a mannerism entirely foreign to her—and, in fact, to the person on whom she had based her current identity. "Sorry. I'm Mara Jade." She extended a hand, which Ollivander shook.

"Mara Jade." He smiled. "A pleasure to meet you." He stared at her a moment longer, nodded at whatever it was that he thought, and disappeared again among the boxes of wands. He was gone quite awhile, returning at last with a very old-looking box that had been recently dusted off. This he opened and set before her. "Try this one."

Meli smiled uncertainly. "You're not going to tell me what wood it's made of, how long it is, or what's at the core?" she asked, only half-joking. He hadn't given her the run-down on her last wand, either—not until it had chosen her.

"It is…an unusual wand," Ollivander replied, and her heart sank. "If it proves to be yours, I'll tell you, of course, but there's no need to explain beforehand."

__

Almost the exact speech, down to the inflection. At least this wand was of a different wood. Her previous wand had been reddish; this was a polished black. She resisted the urge to take a deep breath as she took up the wand.

A dark purple mist surrounded her and then, to her horror, a green light shaped like a cobra leapt forth from the wand's tip. As he had done seventeen years before, Ollivander remained perfectly calm, but he wore a strange little smile that gave Meli reason to believe she was found out.

"Ebony wood," he told her as the mist cleared. "Eleven inches. Werewolf fur at the core."

"W-werewolf?" Meli repeated.

He nodded once. "You have a great task before you, Mara Jade," he said. "The witch who carried the brother to that wand left a great deal undone at her untimely death." His smile turned sly. "I shall not, of course, say a word."

Meli permitted herself a reptilian smile. "Understood," she replied, still with her borrowed accent.

-

****

NOVEMBER 1981, THIRD YEAR AT HOGWARTS

All of the Camerons and Snape accompanied her to her parents' funeral. Meli did not recognize many people there; she had lived with her adoptive parents only two summers and two Christmases. Four figures were easily recognized, however: her grandparents Stafford and her grandparents Ebony. She had hoped that the former would ignore her, but to her unsurprised dismay, they naturally did not.

Mr. Stafford was a stiff, thin, disdainful man who considered himself well-bred on account of his expensive suits and his ill-mannered bearing, which was considered fashionable in certain elitist, though by no means elite, circles. His wife was a sharp whip of a woman, both in appearance and in words, who looked with suspicion on anyone who did not fit exactly her concept of all that was right and proper. As Meli had discovered through frustrating experience, the percentage of the population who fit into that concept mold was even smaller than the percentage who could match up to Madison Avenue's idea of physical perfection.

This gruesome twosome should by all rights have existed only in the pages of a Jane Austen novel, but even caricatures could come to life occasionally, and these two had done. They were convinced that their son had married beneath himself, they disapproved of mingling in lower circles, and they had suddenly discovered a pining for the old system of parish workhouses when Meli had appeared in their son's life. Mrs. Stafford had made it known at one point that she thought of Ebenezer Scrooge's philosophy of reducing the surplus population as highly enlightened—and then she had explained it in cruel detail to Meli, who was just eleven at the time. Meli herself was not much bothered by it, and in fact developed instantly a very low opinion of both her paternal grandparents' intelligence on the basis of that conversation, but she was also aware that she was not a typical eleven year-old and that the woman's intention had been to degrade and hurt her. That understanding did nothing more than lower her opinion even further.

At the approach of this congenial couple, a subtle change came over everyone in Meli's party. Snape, who stood beside her, adopted a disdainful countenance of his own, and the Camerons drew themselves up as a company of avenging angels prepared to strike if so much as a snide syllable emerged from the Staffords. Meli herself closed her expression as she had previously done only for her natural grandfather when weathering his punishments.

"And what do you think you're doing here?" Mrs. Stafford sniffed. "It's bad enough that you got him killed; now you have to desecrate his funeral, too!"

"Of all the insults!" Mr. Stafford added. "Coming where you're not wanted—"

"You seem to have a mistaken impression of who and what is unwanted," Snape interjected smoothly, his tone both silky and deadly. "This is a place of mourning, not of petty foolishness, and what is not wanted is rabble styling itself as nobility, as if it had a right. Now that I've properly informed you, I suggest that you make honorable use of the information and leave immediately."

The Staffords, stunned though they might be at such a reproof, were not so easily uprooted. "And who in God's name are you?" Mr. Stafford demanded.

"There's no need to invoke the name of a deity above yourself, and consequently one in whom you obviously don't believe," Snape returned coldly. "And all you need know is that I'm the one who will remove you if you don't remove yourselves." So saying, he drew himself up to his full height and glared at the Staffords from a vantage point of at least six inches until at last they relented and slinked away, making failed efforts at holding onto some shred of manufactured dignity.

It was Scott Cameron who spoke next. "Woah," he said crossing his arms and grinning. "That was cool."

Meli caught Snape's eye and offered a tiny smile. "Thanks."

Before anything further could be said, Meli's other grandparents joined them. The difference between the Staffords and the Ebonys could not be more marked, and that observation alone was a source of great comfort to Meli. Grandfather Ebony was also tall and thin, but his long face retained a boyish playfulness that even deep wrinkles could not obscure. Grandmother Ebony was a stereotypical grandmotherly woman, down to the deep dimples in her fleshy cheeks and the half-moon spectacles perched on the end of her nose. These two beamed brightly at the Camerons, at Snape, and especially at Meli, spreading rays of sunshine everywhere they looked. Through these smiles, though, Meli was oddly comforted to see what she had not perceived in the Staffords' haughty countenances: evidence of tragic tears held at bay. It was not pride that kept the tears from flowing but rather the temporary victory of joy at seeing…her.

"Oh, dear, I'm so glad you made it," Grandmother said, catching Meli in a strong hug. "Everything happened so quickly, I wasn't sure the headmaster got my letter in time."

Meli smiled solemnly as her grandmother released her and stepped back. "I'm glad I made it, too," she replied. She politely indicated Snape. "This is my chemistry teacher, Mr. Snape. Sir, these are my grandparents, Henry and Rose Ebony."

Snape offered a half-bow and shook Grandfather's hand. There was no need to introduce the Camerons; the Ebonys had met them several times while visiting Meli's family.

"Thank you for bringing her, Mr. Snape," Grandfather said. "I only wish we could have met under better circumstances."

Snape nodded politely.

Grandmother smiled and leaned over to whisper in Meli's ear. "I like him better than Professor Brewer," she confided. "_His_ eyes aren't glazed over with idiocy."

Meli smiled back but couldn't trust herself to formulate a suitable verbal reply.

-

****

PRESENT: MID-JUNE

Meli arrived early to her own funeral, which, though she was unaware of it, was what a number of her acquaintances had always predicted she would do. Her time of arrival was largely owing to the role she had adopted, but Dumbledore had also asked her to come a bit ahead of time, as there was someone he wanted her to meet.

"Ah, Rasa," the headmaster said, smiling as he strode over to her, accompanied by a shabby-looking man. "Permit me to introduce you to our newest teacher. This is Remus Lupin, our former and current Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. Remus, this is Rasa."

Meli looked on her replacement with new interest. "Professor Lupin," she said cordially. "It's a pleasure—indeed, I should say an honor, to meet one of the legendary Marauders."

Lupin smiled faintly. "The honor is mine," he replied mildly. "I understand you'll be making others as nonexistent as you yourself are?"

"Who better to set the example than someone who's successfully done it?" she countered, offering her hand.

"Well said." He, too, extended his hand to shake hers, but then a very odd thing happened.

The left side of Meli's robe, into which she'd sewn a sheath for her wand, pulled back as Lupin's hand came forward. The wand sheath jerked behind her back with such force that it nearly turned her around.

Meli felt her smile freeze into place, saw Lupin's do the same as each realized what had happened. Dumbledore's eyebrows raised less than a millimeter in reaction…then the moment passed. Lupin caught and shook Meli's hand, then withdrew it and stepped back. Her wand slowly crept out from behind her back, bringing the corner of her robe with it.

"I always knew I preferred human company to that of…certain solitary magical creatures," Lupin commented. "But I had no idea that the feeling was mutual."

"It is a wasted day in which someone does not learn something new," Meli replied. _Such as the fact that there's truth to the rumors that you're a werewolf, Professor Lupin. A pity my wand had to betray itself in proving that, but on the bright side, you had no way of knowing what was at the core of Meli Ebony's wand and therefore no way of associating her with me._ "However, I have found in my short, eventful life that some things are accidentally learned, and that not all lessons are meant to be passed on."

Again, he smiled, and she caught a subtle trace of understanding in it. "Once more, well said."

-

Rose and Henry Ebony had not been to Hogwarts since their granddaughter had graduated ten years before, but to Rose the old castle looked much the same, at least on its surface. Some of the stonework was damaged in places, and the corridors still smelled faintly of smoke, but the school itself had lost none of its majesty.

In place of school and House banners in the Great Hall, there were black hangings and drapes. The dining tables had been removed and replaced with padded benches akin to church pews, and the faculty table was likewise gone, making way for a closed black casket.

The casket, Rose knew, was entirely symbolic. Meli had been the last blood descendent of Voldemort, and Dark Lords liked to use remains of blood relatives for Dark spells or nasty experiments. Dumbledore himself had notified her adoptive family that Meli had requested immediate cremation and dispersal, and that her wishes had been carried out with all possible care and speed.

"Hello, Mum and Dad."

Rose turned to see her only living child standing beside her. "Amber, you came!"

Amber, a tallish woman who looked as if she could have taught Audrey Hepburn a thing or two about style and poise, smiled somberly. "It's the least I could do," she replied. "Meli brought pride to the family by dying a hero. How could I not come?"

Henry nodded. "It's good to see you, even under the circumstances," he said.

Amber was an Unspeakable in the Department of Mysteries, and Rose had discovered that even wizards generally didn't know what that meant. Based upon Amber's personality and abilities, her parents assumed that it was a sort of magical spook agency, but Amber hadn't told, and they wouldn't ask. All that anyone knew for certain was that her job required odd hours and kept her from seeing her family much, even over holidays. She hadn't been to Christmas dinner in six years.

"You are the Ebonys, I presume?" a gentle voice inquired.

They looked to the side and found there a young woman with thick, black hair pulled into a single plait down her back. She might have been eighteen or twenty, but the dignity with which she carried herself belonged to a much older time.

"We are," Amber answered, regarding this stranger with undisguised interest.

"My name is Lizzie," the young woman replied. "I volunteered to help—" She broke off, then spoke again, more slowly and with apparent difficulty. "It's good to see you here; Professor Dumbledore was hoping you could come. Please, follow me."

Lizzie led them to the front of the hall, then stood aside and motioned for them to enter a particular row.

"Isn't this the family section?" Amber asked, raising her eyebrows in surprise. They had hardly known Meli, after all, and while she had written regularly, they hadn't seen her since her fiancé's death ten years ago.

Lizzie, too, raised her eyebrows. "You _are_ her family," she replied. "She always thought of you so. Meli knew that…that she could die at any time, and she left specific instructions that you be seated here at her funeral."

The Ebonys all exchanged uncertain glances, but they silently filed into the row Lizzie had indicated. They were alone there, Rose noticed; if the family of Meli's fiancé had come, or the wizarding family who had taken her in after her parents' deaths, they were sitting elsewhere. She meant to ask Lizzie about it, but when she turned to do so, the black-haired girl had gone.

-

"Lizzie" slipped out of the Great Hall and ducked into an alcove, then buried her sleeves in her eyes. If she couldn't make it through _this_ without crying, she didn't see how she was going to survive the rest of the funeral at all.

It had been a decade since she'd seen her grandparents and even longer since she'd seen her aunt. To see them now, to hear their voices, to talk with them, yet not to touch them or really converse with them, broke her heart more than anything else having to do with this charade. She could hold out on the Camerons, the Fells, even Andrea, simply because she must, but to interact with the Ebonys, who had barely known her and loved her anyway, and not to give the whole thing away—it was impossible. And yet it was crucial.

Amber would forgive her; she was an Unspeakable and understood such things. Her grandparents, however…

"Stop," she whispered viciously. "It's just a speck in your eye. Rub it out and go on."

She at last succeeded in chasing the water from her eyes and returned to the Great Hall. Attending her own funeral had seemed like a fun thing at first, but now her only thought was to ride it out without crying more than her own family did.

-

Several rows back from the Ebonys sat a nondescript family that no one recognized but whom no one really noticed, either. It appeared to be two sets of grandparents, a married couple, and their two sons, and the observer who concluded such would have been largely correct. One set of grandparents, outside of this charade, however, was in no way related to the rest of the family.

The elder of the two boys surveyed the other mourners through eyes reddened with tears, while his brother, though alert, seemed to have tearlessly withdrawn himself. The rest of the family were silent and pale, with no apparent contact with the world around them as they waited for the funeral to begin.

This silent bubble was breached only once, and that briefly, by the arrival of a young woman none of them knew. She bumped the arm of the faux grandfather, who sat next to the center aisle, and earnestly begged his pardon.

"Not at all, not at all," he replied, his Oxford accent just barely tainted by a trace of Welsh. "It's rather crowded; people are bound to bump into one another here."

The girl smiled gratefully and caught a lock of black hair that had strayed from her thick braid, tucking the escapee behind her ear. "Thank you," she said, then looked at the other seven family members. "Thank you all," she added inexplicably, then faded away into the crowd.

The faux grandfather turned to his wife. "Have you ever felt that someone you couldn't see through was looking through you?" he asked in an undertone.

She smiled sadly. "Only with Crimson," she answered.

-

Meli had not expected a huge turnout; she was hardly a social butterfly, and she knew that few, if any, of her students, Muggle or wizard, would ever consider her a great mentor or role model. She hadn't exactly gone out of her way to be liked, and she had specifically gone out of her way _not_ to make friends.

It was a surprise, therefore, to see the Great Hall nearly full. The entire Order of the Phoenix had turned out, along with a number of Order supporters and several Hogwarts students and their families.

__

How ironic, Meli reflected, catching sight of the Abelmore brood. Six of the twelve children were current Hufflepuffs who had cowered under her glare for a year. _All I had to do to become popular and beloved was to die._

She resisted the urge to shake her head; such a motion was out of character for Lizzie Hexam in this time and place.

At Dumbledore's half-joking suggestion, she was attending her own funeral; at her own request, she would be participating. After her brief encounter with the people she believed to be the Camerons and the Fells (it was hard to be certain; Andrea had done a splendid job with their appearance charms), she had proceeded to the front of the Hall, where the other participants were seated. Snape and Andrea nodded politely to her, while Dumbledore consulted his watch, then stood to take his place behind a podium positioned in front of the casket.

The low murmuring of those gathered bled away into silence, and all eyes turned to focus on the headmaster.

"Friends and family," he began in a clear, resonant voice, "we come together today to celebrate the life of Meli Ailsa Ebony. Though she has fallen in battle, her spirit lives on among us, and I believe that she would wish us to remember the good rather than to dwell on her loss."

__

Actually, I'd prefer you all to forget about me, Meli thought peevishly. _This is all rather embarrassing and silly—all the more so because most of you hated me. And Albus, you can stop with the tongue-in-cheek eulogy any time._

"Professor Snape now has a few words to say."

Snape replaced Dumbledore at the podium and read, with minimal inflection, an obituary that he and the headmaster had carefully prepared. He had to walk the unenviable tightrope of appearing to the Order to have been Meli's friend while simultaneously appearing to Voldemort to have been her covert enemy. It had required hours of trimming and tweaking the facts and connotative language to create a suitably universal obituary, but they had managed it at last.

It did cover all of the bases, though, Meli thought. He talked about her time as a student and prankster, her teaching in Little Whinging, and her year teaching at Hogwarts, and he did so matter-of-factly. It probably helped his delivery that he knew Meli to be alive, well, and sitting not two meters away, but she thought he'd have pulled it off admirably in any case.

Next came Andrea, who did not know that Meli was alive, did not have the need to be dispassionate, and did not want to stick to the cut-and-dried facts. It was from her that the mourners heard tales of Meli's hell-raising escapades, her determined loyalty as a friend, and her tenacious dedication to ridding the world of Voldemort and his ilk. Where Snape had called Meli "memorable" (no one, least of all the Dark Lord himself, could argue that point), Andrea named her a hero and a martyr and went so far as to call upon all present to look on her sacrifice and devotion to the cause as an example to be lived up to.

By the end of that spirited tirade, Meli would gladly have dug a hole and buried herself in it had the option been viable. She had now dancing in her head the mortifying picture of herself dressed in red-and-white striped trousers, a blue waistcoat, a star-spangled top hat, and a white goatee, jabbing her finger out of a poster that screamed, "I WANT YOU TO JOIN THE ORDER AND BRING DOWN VOLDEMORT!"

__

I doubt she meant to make me a rallying point for propaganda, Meli reflected darkly, _but all the same, I'd prefer to be as unobtrusive in death as I was in life._

Unfortunately, the only way to have accomplished that would be to have died in her sleep, which hadn't been an available choice at the time.

Dumbledore returned to the podium in Andrea's wake and offered what he had dubbed a "comforting word". Except for the fact that there were no readings attached, Meli considered it a misnamed homily. He never outright quoted the Twenty-Third Psalm, for instance, but he certainly alluded to it indirectly some half-dozen times, and he spoke of expecting to see Meli again someday (though she suspected that statement of being sardonic rather than theological).

He finished his brief address by informing those present that Meli's favorite poet had been Robert Burns, and then he called forward "a longtime acquaintance of Meli's" to sing her a proper send-off.

__

Proper send-off, indeed, Meli thought, amused. _More of a double-message, if you ask me. If they knew who was singing this…_

She barely restrained a smirk, then, in a trained voice very different from the high, impish croon they had all come to know and fear, she sang her own ironical epitaph:

__

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,  
And never brought to mind?  
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,  
And auld lang syne?  
For auld lang syne, my dear.  
For auld lang syne,  
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,  
For auld lang syne.

We twa hae run about the braes,  
And pu'd the gowans fine;  
But we've wander'd mony a weary foot  
Sin' auld lang syne.

We twa hae paidled i' the burn,  
From morning sun till dine;  
But seas between us braid hae roar'd  
Sin' auld lang syne.

And there's a hand, my trusty fiere,  
And gie's a hand o' thine;  
And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught,  
For auld lang syne.

And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp,  
And surely I'll be mine;  
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet  
For auld lang syne.  
For auld lang syne, my dear.  
For auld lang syne,  
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,  
For auld lang syne.

At the completion of the song, Meli silently resumed her seat, carefully not looking at anyone who knew her to be still among the living and even more carefully avoiding Andrea, who was actually crying. Dumbledore stood and dismissed the mourners, inviting them to stay for a luncheon, which was to be served out by the lake.

As people slowly filed past the Ebonys, Meli at last felt fully the unreality of what had just happened. She was now dead—finally and officially dead. It did not require a Dickensian soliloquy to explain the facts; it had only required time for those facts to sink in. After the fashion of John Harmon, she belonged neither to this world nor to the next, and the birth of Rasa was slim comfort when viewed in that context.

Andrea thanked her for her singing, then slipped off to talk with the Ebonys; Meli was too frozen in her reflections to respond. Snape apparently picked up on her mood, for he cleared his throat and caught her eye.

"Will you be going to the luncheon, Miss Hexam?" he asked. "Or had you rather go home?"

Meli stirred and managed a wan smile. "Home sounds best," she replied. "I think it would be best if I didn't eat just now."

"Do you require any assistance?" he persisted.

__

Translation, Meli thought sardonically, _you want an excuse to escape. Well, be it overzealous mediwitches or funeral luncheons, I am happy to assist._

"If I could avail myself of your arm, sir," she said quietly, "I would be much obliged to you."

Snape narrowed his eyes in something like a slight smile. "Then consider yourself obliged, Miss Hexam," he returned, then offered her his arm. "Although in truth, the pleasure is mine."

****

FURTHER AUTHOR'S NOTE: Just in case anyone reading this happens to have read my reviews from earlier today, let me set any potential fears to rest. I will be giving up _reading_ fanfic for Lent (my sweet tooth is comparable to Meli's, so giving up snacks wasn't a real option; this year I figured we'd make a real sacrifice), but please rest assured that this does _not_ include proofing my own work or posting it. I hope to update as regularly as possible, no matter where we are in relation to Ash Wednesday.  
AE


	5. Of Dragons and Elves

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** For anyone who happens to have read the Dark Badger stories before this one, no, I actually did _not_ cannibalize characters from that story for this. Believe it or not, the opposite is true—Alfred, Mortimer, Reginald, and Lavinia all existed in this tale before I'd even thought up the Dark Badger saga, but once that terrifying parody started to take off, they just naturally lent themselves to it, and it seemed a shame to leave them out simply because they belonged here first. The only noticeable change in any of them is that Lavinia's militant wardrobe and piercings are notably absent; otherwise, any Dark Badger fans who may be among you have little to fear in the way of alteration.

And I don't know about you, but _I_ find that rather scary.

PS Just for the record, yes, I actually _have_ been to Wales. I'm sorry if the word picture I paint here is rather pale, but I did the best I could within the bounds of the infuriatingly inadequate and uncooperative English language.  
AE

****

Chapter 5: Of Dragons and Elves

Meli waited until after she and Snape had finished their claptrap mission to Surrey to follow up with Dumbledore on the matter of Rasa, but once that was out of the way, she spoke with him again.

"You are settled in this, then?" he said, his eyes twinkling even while his countenance was deadly serious. "It would put you in harm's way quite often, and, while you have the advantage of being presumed dead, if you ever fell into Voldemort's hands, he would quickly uncover your identity."

"I understand all of that," she replied. "And I've weighed it very carefully. The prospect of danger doesn't particularly daunt me, Gryffindor that I am, and if it will help the Order, I'm willing to risk a family reunion. Whether or not I'm committed is not in question. What is, at this point, uncertain is whether or not I'll be _able_ to do it. I haven't all of the necessary resources, to say the least."

"Very true," Dumbledore agreed. "You would need person-specific portkeys, a large stock of potions, and, as we discussed, a hidden place of residence, just to start.

Meli smirked. "And an amusing sidekick-slash-valet wouldn't hurt, either," she added dryly.

Dumbledore gave her a wry smile. "Indeed," he allowed. "Fortunately, you already have the memorable code name—unless, of course, you'd prefer to change it to the Lone Ranger."

"Given that person's obsession with silver bullets," Meli rejoined, "I rather think it would put me at odds with at least one Order member, so, while I take your point, I'm afraid it just wouldn't do."

"Then Rasa it is," Dumbledore concluded. "Now all that remains is to call Severus and Zarekael."

Meli arched an eyebrow. "Why Severus and Zarekael?" she inquired.

"Between them," he answered, "all that you require can be provided, unless I am very much mistaken."

She frowned. "The potions and portkeys, certainly, but the—" She broke off and stared at him. "You _can't_ be serious."

"I think it highly likely that Severus would offer it," Dumbledore replied calmly.

"Assuming it even exists in the first place," Meli countered. "To my knowledge, rumors to the contrary, Severus hasn't any home but Hogwarts."

"Snape Manor undoubtedly exists," Dumbledore said, smiling. "_And_ it's in good repair, for the most part, courtesy of a large staff of house elves."

Meli gave him a disgusted look. "That settles it," she growled. "I refuse to be the only human in a house infested by an army of house elves."

"The Snape house elves are rather…atypical," Dumbledore assured her, moving toward the fireplace. "And I doubt Severus would recommend a hideout that would make you miserable."

"I suppose," Meli grudgingly allowed.

-

As predicted, the two potions brewers were quite willing to equip Meli with all of the potions and portkeys she needed…and Snape did indeed offer her the use of Snape Manor. It was, even she had to admit, an ideal location. As the home of a Death Eater, it was above Voldemort's notice, and as the abandoned estate of an embittered son, it was outside the Ministry's calculation. Located as it was in an obscure region of the Welsh countryside, the chances of its being stumbled over by anyone, wizard or Muggle, were beyond remote. The only real objection she still had to the scheme was the composition of the staff.

"I understand your hesitance," Snape told her, smirking. "But I think you'll find that the house elves at Snape Manor are more…how shall I say it…_refined_ than the house elves with whom you've crossed paths before."

Meli's eyebrows hovered just below her widow's peak. "_Refined_ house elves?" she repeated. "This I've _got_ to see."

"A tour of the manor can certainly be arranged at any time," Snape replied, his smirk deepening just a bit. He turned his eyes to Dumbledore. "Have you any need of my son or me this weekend?" he asked, rather sardonically. "Family business draws us to the ancestral home."

Dumbledore offered a shrewd smile in return. "I think I can spare you," he answered in a similar tone. "Have a lovely visit."

-

The following Friday, Snape, Zarekael, and Meli apparated to a hill just outside the manor grounds and walked to the estate from there. Meli had traveled extensively, but she had never been to Wales, and this first sight of it quite took her breath away. The sky above was its normal shade of blue, but the earth beneath it had been washed over with the deepest, lushest, most _alive_ color green she had ever thought to encounter. Here and there were scattered a few trees, and she had no doubt that there were flowers to be found, but the chief beauty of this place lay in the life of the grass and the scent of the rich earth.

"As far as the scenery goes," she remarked, "I think you could do far worse. If I'd grown up in such a place, I might actually _like_ the fresh air!"

Neither of the others made any reply, but both betrayed signs of amusement.

While they could have used a portkey to go directly into the manor house, they chose to walk, giving Meli a chance to see the whole territory. The stroll was pleasant enough and not too terribly long—perhaps only a mile or so. The house itself, which had been an impressive black blob at the beginning, grew steadily as they went, proving at last to be a wonderful large construction of stone that had been worn and blackened by the centuries. It stared down at her from countless eyes full of similarly blackened history, and she thought, almost off-handedly, that because of its size, dignity, age, and stonework, some of her American acquaintances might have called it, not unjustly, a castle. To her it seemed more of a thing plucked from a book—a place that Jonathan Harker would have avoided as a place of horror, or that Legolas Greenleaf would describe as full of memory and anger. The manor house stood proudly—one might even say haughtily—but Meli had the sense that shameful things had been done within its walls, things that would chill even her blood.

The door was opened by a stiff and starched house elf whom Snape addressed as Mortimer. As with all other house elves bound to a family, Mortimer wore no proper clothes, but his neatly pressed and draped black tea towel toga did nothing to diminish his dignified look—nor did the white dish cloth he wore as an ascot. He bowed deeply at their entrance.

"Welcome home, Mr. Snape," he said, with a university-sounding accent. "And you, Master Zarekael." He turned politely to Meli.

A chill crept down her spine when she caught her first full view of Mortimer's face. His accent and grammar had been shock enough, but his countenance unsettled her entirely. Never in her life had she thought she might encounter a truly sadistic house elf, but from the Norman Bates smile he wore to the not-quite-right sheen in his eyes, Mortimer seemed every ounce the psychopath just waiting to happen.

"Mortimer," Snape was saying, "this is Rasa. She may be staying here for awhile."

The house elf bowed again. "Delighted to meet you, Miss Rasa," he replied with a grin.

_Note to self,_ Meli thought resisting the urge to gulp_. Do not take a shower in Snape Manor—particularly if you discover that the butler keeps a gray wig, a dress, and a knife ready to hand._

-

Mortimer would have been enough of a scare to last Meli the remainder of the weekend, but he was merely her first warning. The next food for thought came almost immediately afterward, in the form of the family's coat of arms, which hung on a wall not far from the entryway.

The shield was black with a silver border and a silver line crossing from the bottom left to the top right, dividing it in two. The upper division held a manticore with such a look of cunning on its face that Meli wondered if the artist had had a person in mind when he rendered it. Aside from its almost human countenance, the manticore was not objectionable, though; what caused Meli's eyes to widen and her mouth to go dry was the animal beneath it.

In the bottom half of the shield coiled a dragon. Its body formed an S, with its bared fangs at the top right and the point of its tail at the bottom left. In the bottom curve of the S was cradled the unmistakable shape of a human heart, and in its claws the dragon clutched a human skull.

It was an emblem that Meli had come across in her professional studies and one that Andrea Underhill had once described with disgust. This was the Dracul—the arms of the vampiric Vlad family.

"I come from old blood, as you can see," Snape stated quietly, breaking into her thoughts. She whirled, startled, to find his face a closed mask. "The Vlads were not always the power-brokers…and the Snapes never will be again." He turned away. "I believe the dungeons show the most promise for your purposes. Shall we?"

She nodded, then followed him and Zarekael to the stairs without a word.

-

The dungeons, as it turned out, were perfect for what she had in mind. Whatever they had been previously used for, all relics had been removed, leaving countless empty rooms and, at the far end of the dungeons, a caved-in portion of corridor.

"It looks like a haven for bats," she said off-handedly. "I suppose I shall have to dub it the Bat Cave, then." Snape and Zarekael, who possessed little, if any, knowledge of Muggle comic books, nodded politely but refrained from comment.

There were three rooms within reasonable distance of one another that sparked her interest. The first looked like it had once been a guards' room, but all that remained in it now were a fireplace and some rough furniture. The second was little bigger than a broom closet; Meli had her own ideas for its potential uses, but she had no desire to ponder its original purpose and function. The third room, a short distance down the corridor from the other two, would do just fine as a bedroom for her, and there were other rooms of similar size further into the dungeons that could be made into guest rooms with relative ease.

"It's absolutely ideal," she told Snape, smiling. "I honestly couldn't ask for better."

Snape narrowed his eyes in amusement, approbation, or both. "I'd be happy to assign one of the house elves to be your assistant," he offered. "I'm sure Mortimer—"

"Aah, let's keep Mortimer _out_ of the dungeons, shall we?" Meli interrupted. "There's bound to be someone better suited."

Snape and Zarekael exchanged smirks. "In that case," the former replied, "I suppose you had better meet the staff."

-

The staff comprised twenty house elves, ten male, ten female, all decked out in black tea towels and white dish cloths. The males were dressed identically to Mortimer; the females wore their tea towels as sarongs and their dish cloths as aprons. They lined up in the entryway, their manner that of soldiers on review. At Snape's appearance on the scene, all twenty moved in unison, half bowing and half bobbing curtsies. It was rather disturbing, really; Meli had developed the idea that house elves were thoroughly incapable of refined behavior. Clearly, all that they truly lacked were opportunity and education, and the Snape family, probably in the interest of eliminating multiple sources of annoyance, had been happy to provide both.

Snape surveyed them all, then furrowed his brow. "Where's Reginald?" he asked. "Lavinia?"

One of the females stepped forward and curtsied. "He wasn't quite the student we hoped he'd be," she answered coolly. "I believe Mortimer could best account for his last known whereabouts."

Snape glanced to Mortimer, who merely grinned. "Very well," he said, quite calmly. "This lady accompanying Zarekael and me is Rasa. She will be staying here indefinitely, and from time to time, there will be other guests dropping by. I expect you to follow Rasa's wishes as if they were mine—and when her wishes are in conflict with those of other guests, hers take precedence. Is that understood?"

Twenty house elves bowed and bobbed, and twenty faces took on calculating expressions worthy of a pack of Slytherins.

"Now," Snape continued. "Rasa has need for an assistant in the tasks she will be performing. Is any of you _un_willing?"

To Meli's somewhat naïve relief, Mortimer stepped forward. "I'd like to excuse myself from it, if I may, sir," he said. "It might take time away from my educational duties."

"No doubt," Snape replied dryly. "Are there any others?"

There were none, so Snape led Meli down the line, introducing each house elf and his or her station as he went. Perhaps two-thirds of the way down the line, they came to a dignified house elf, whom Snape introduced as Alfred. Not waiting to hear what it was that Alfred did, Meli grinned. "You're _perfect_!" she told him.

Snape arched an eyebrow, and Alfred looked a bit surprised. "Thank you," he said calmly. "I do live to please."

Meli turned to Snape. "Do you have any objection to Alfred helping me out in the Bat Cave?" she asked.

Something about either her choice or her request inordinately amused Snape, and even Zarekael seemed to be forcing a smirk to hide a smile. "I have no objection at all," Snape assured her. "Alfred?"

The house elf bowed. "I would be honored," he answered crisply, then looked to Meli. "And you can have every confidence in me, Madam," he continued. "Whether the task is scrubbing toilets or burying bodies, you will find mine a sure hand."

There was a beat of silence while Meli gauged Alfred. Yes, she saw, he was entirely serious beneath his deadpan; he had, she began to suspect, buried a number of bodies in his time. "Thank you, Alfred," she said through suddenly stiff lips. "I'm sure I will."

Alfred smiled, betraying for the first time a sign of something morbid in his soul. Mortimer had reminded her of Norman Bates; Alfred went five steps further, making the jump from Hitchcock to the now-fresh-in-her-mind Dickens and showing a remarkable likeness to Rogue Riderhood. He was not a psychopath waiting to happen but rather a calculating murderer well-versed and long-practiced.

No wonder Snape and Zarekael had been so amused.

She glanced at the silent father and son, the latter of whom was doing his best to look innocent and the former of whom wasn't even bothering to try. "Laugh it up, you two," she muttered, just loudly enough for them to hear. "You knew it was a crap shot; there was at least one chance at hitting snake-eyes."

"My dear Neshdiana," Snape chided with an evil smirk, "consider where you are. You couldn't help but hit snake-eyes in a house full of house elves _my_ family deemed fit for service."

"Slytherins," Meli sighed, using the situation to mask another source of annoyance. Zarekael, it seemed, had created a nickname for her while they were still in the hospital wing, for as he pointed out, until she settled on some definite name, he couldn't very well call her Meli in others' hearing. That had been good and well, but now Snape had picked it up, and even though she was officially known as Rasa, where these two were concerned, Neshdiana had stuck. It might not have irritated her so much had either one of them seen fit to tell her what the name, which came from Zarekael's native tongue, actually _meant._

She sighed again. "The whole bloody lot of them are Slytherins," she intoned. "I'm doomed."

"Only if you prove unteachable," Zarekael countered with a straight face. "And then only if Mortimer finds out."

Meli glared at him. "You're not helping," she growled.

The Potions apprentice turned away, but she heard something that sounded suspiciously like a snicker.

_Well,_ she thought darkly_, at least_ someone's _morale is high._

-

She and Alfred quickly got to work figuring out the best possible way to arrange things in the Bat Cave. He had no objections to her rudimentary initial plans, though he seemed to delight in telling her, matter-of-factly, that the narrow room the size of a broom closet was the place in which Reginald had last been seen.

"And who, exactly, was Reginald?" Meli asked.

Alfred smirked. "You catch on quickly," he told her. "_Was_, indeed. He came from another family who'd become fed up with him and given him clothes. Mr. Snape was happy to employ him, provided that he learned proper English. _We_ were happy to accept him, provided that he took a proper name. When he first came, he would only answer to Bibby, but we soon put that to rights." He shook his head. "Alas, proper English escaped him, and I'm afraid Mortimer can be a bit overzealous with his electroshock therapy."

Meli raised her eyebrows skeptically. "Electroshock therapy?" she echoed.

"There's nothing quite like it," Alfred said, almost dreamily. "The glow is a beautiful shade of blue—rather like Lavinia's eyes, I think." He paused ruminatively, then slowly recalled himself. "In any case, Mortimer is rather impatient. He always increases the charge when he'd do better to wait a few minutes. I'm told that Reginald managed six full, proper sentences before suddenly dissolving into ashes." He shook his head regretfully. "It's a pity, really; he had a fine gift for blacking shoes."

Meli stared at the house elf's tragically sincere countenance for a full moment before nodding. "And you tell that story to everyone who comes here, don't you."

Alfred looked as innocent as Zarekael had done an hour earlier. "Why, whatever _could_ you mean?" he asked.

"What I mean," she answered, one corner of her mouth turning upward, "is that your story has all the earmarks of either a household joke or an urban legend. I have no doubt that there may once have been a house elf employed here whose name was Reginald; he might even have been called Bibby beforehand. _And_ I have no trouble believing that Mortimer has killed before or that he would consider an electroshock machine to be a toy more than a tool. I think, however, that your collective sense of humor happens to thrive on scaring people senseless, and I'm sorry to say that, while you had me going for a bit, you've talked me out of what little belief you'd managed to talk me into."

Alfred drew a pocket watch from the folds of his toga. "Forty-two minutes, seventeen seconds," he announced mildly. "Splendid! It takes most people a few days. I believe you have the shortest time yet!"

Meli arched an eyebrow. "You were _timing_ me?"

"Please understand, Madam," Alfred explained. "No one lives here but the staff. We must have _some_ way to amuse ourselves, and Mr. Snape generously aids and abets in this little game of ours." He leaned in confidingly. "Between us," he added, "I think the master is as amused by it as we ourselves are. For a human, he has remarkably good sense, wouldn't you say?"

"Undoubtedly," Meli replied sardonically. "Well, far be it from me to spoil your fun. Just be sure that you don't play your game with _all_ of my guests. Some of them are bound to arrive here a bit out of sorts."

"Ah, there you need have no fear, Madam," Alfred assured her. "Whatever may be true of our unenlightened kindred elsewhere, _Snape_ house elves are nothing if not discreet."

Meli shook her head. "I don't doubt it," she told him. "Oh, and do me a favor."

Alfred tilted his head expectantly.

"_Don't_ call me Madam."

The house elf appeared taken aback. "What ought I to call you, then?" he inquired.

"Rasa will do just fine," she replied. "And if a situation calls for me going by a different name, I'll be sure to let you know."

"Do you anticipate that happening often?" Alfred asked, his eyes glittering conspiratorially.

Meli smiled thinly. "Anything is possible these days," she said coolly. "But the truth of it is, I really don't know."

**FURTHER AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Just in case anyone's wondering about the emblem of the dragon (specifically, where the hell it came from)…Back in the day, there was a Transylvanian nobleman named Vlad who distinguished himself in combat and earned the nickname "Dracul", one of the meanings for which is "dragon". His son, also named Vlad, was known as "Dracula", which means "son of the Dracul", and when he showed himself to be an extremely not-nice guy, the people used the other meaning for "Dracul" when referring to him—namely, "devil" (thus, he was known as "son of the devil"). This charming fellow was also known as Vlad the Impaler, and he is the historical figure on whom Bram Stoker based Count Dracula. I'm not picky about the language from which a pun springs, so I am quite happy to employ a Romanian pun here, in the interest of both diversity and literary expediency.

And incidentally, yes; every single thing I just said becomes important at some later date in this story. It pays to read theA/N's!  
AE


	6. The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Men

****

Chapter 6: The Best-Laid Plans of Mice and Men

Meli took her time setting up her quarters at Snape Manor, in part because she had inside information that her services would probably not be required until the end of the summer. Voldemort had at least one major operation in the works, but the preparation and timing required for it prevented him from acting until possibly September, or so Snape and Zarekael reported. The result was likely to be a long, quiet summer, which Voldemort probably hoped would either lull or discomfit his enemies, and which Meli considered a blessing in disguise because it gave her that much longer to settle in. Once the Dark Lord began his next offensive, there would be plenty of people in need of new homes and identities; there was no sense in wishing for it early.

Dumbledore called her in for a meeting near the end of June, and she arrived in his office to find that she was not the only one summoned. Snape and Zarekael were also there, standing at ease near Dumbledore's desk rather than sitting in any of the several chairs arranged nearby. Meli, taking her cue from them, also stood rather than sat, and looked expectantly to Dumbledore.

The headmaster gazed gravely at all three of them, but the matter couldn't be terribly serious or hopeless; his eyes were still twinkling. "Rasa," he began, "Severus and Zarekael have some good news for you."

Meli turned to the father and son and arched her eyebrow. "You've discovered a scientific way to turn straw into gold?" she suggested sardonically.

"It's rather more useful than that," Snape replied in a similar tone. "Zarekael and I have managed to create a prototype portkey that will make your job a bit simpler."

She raised her eyebrows. "I assume, based on what you've said, that it's more than a voice-activated paperweight," she hedged.

"Much more," Zarekael confirmed. "This is a ring that can only be removed by the wearer, that cannot be worn by a Death Eater, and that responds only to the voice of its owner. When activated, it takes the person wearing it to a predetermined refuge."

"To the Bat Cave?" Meli suggested, smirking slightly.

"To the Bat Cave," Snape affirmed, entirely missing the allusion.

"What keeps a Death Eater from wearing it?" Meli asked.

Father and son looked first at one another, then at the floor. "We've specifically designed it to detect the Dark Mark," Snape told her quietly. "No one with that type of Brand will be able to wear it."

"Including you."

Snape shrugged. "It's rather commonly known within the Order that I bear the Dark Mark, so I'll draw no attention to myself by not wearing one," he replied. "And Zarekael happens to be allergic to one of the potions with which the ring was treated."

Meli cleared her throat. "I see."

"Once a number of these rings have been made," Dumbledore interjected, "they will be issued to members of the Order and to certain other key people." He raised his eyebrows. "Everyone important to Harry Potter will receive one; we have reason to believe that Voldemort plans to target his friends…and his family."

Meli shook her head. "The Dursleys have already rejected protection," she reminded him. "No one from the Order is going to make it past the front door, and you know it."

"I'm quite sure that another visit from Clap and Trap would end in disaster," Dumbledore conceded. "Which is why the next visitors will be as conciliatory as the first two were objectionable."

She narrowed her eyes. "And why do I have the feeling I'm going to be one of those conciliatory visitors you're alluding to?"

"You won't be going alone," Zarekael told her softly. "I have volunteered to accompany you."

Meli closed her eyes and counted ten. When she was certain of keeping her baser feelings to herself, she looked again to the headmaster. "All right, then," she sighed. "When?"

"Not yet," Dumbledore assured her. "It will take time to manufacture the necessary rings. In the meantime, there is another event to plan for. The new Minister of Magic will be inaugurated in a week, and the Ministry has chosen to hold the ceremony and reception here at Hogwarts."

Meli swallowed. Between foreign dignitaries and any number of bureaucrats, not to mention the requisite honored guests and anyone else whose presence was deemed necessary, such an event promised to be a logistical and security nightmare. "And the three of us are to be somehow involved?" she asked with a sinking heart.

Dumbledore nodded. "Severus and Zarekael will be present as members of the faculty," he answered, "and you, Meli, will be there disguised as an Unspeakable."

"An Unspeakable." She was amused in spite of herself. "Don't Unspeakables generally disguise themselves as other sorts of people? An undisguised Unspeakable would be sure to draw attention."

"You'll be further disguised," the headmaster told her. "I need to speak with a contact in the Department about your possible further identity, but if anyone should for any reason demand identification, you'll have a badge identifying yourself as an Unspeakable. That ought to give you free run of the Great Hall and the grounds, and it will provide you with a plausible reason for being there." The twinkle in his eyes muted somewhat. "Your actual purpose will be to protect the new Minister of Magic."

"Somehow I doubt Minister Ghen will like being guarded by an Unspeakable he doesn't know," Meli pointed out.

"Which is why you will appear to be guarding me instead," Dumbledore countered. "Should anything happen, however, your first priority is to protect Ghen."

"And someone else will be protecting you?"

The headmaster smiled slightly. "I'll be adequately protected," he didn't quite answer.

Meli left the meeting in a darkly thoughtful mood. It made sense that the Ministry didn't trust the safety of its own facilities; after all, Fudge had been assassinated in his cabinet conference room, which was one of the most secure rooms in the Ministry. Hogwarts was out of the way and was widely known to be a fortress—it made perfect sense to have an important event in the safest possible place, especially with so many people of importance in attendance. Everything about the arrangement was logical.

What wasn't so logical, however, was the timing of it all. The inauguration would be the ideal time to strike, not only at the Minister of Magic but at anyone else of importance…and yet Inner Circle spies had indicated that the summer would be more or less uneventful. If Snape or Zarekael knew otherwise, they would surely have said something just now, and they had remained silent, which indicated that, if Voldemort was up to something, he was keeping it from them. And given that they weren't exactly low-ranking Death Eaters, and they weren't under suspicion (so far as she knew, anyway), if they hadn't been told that something would happen, the odds were better than even that nothing was going to happen.

So why did she sense that it would be otherwise?

__

It's just the snake in me, she thought. _If it were me in command, I'd strike. Either I would assassinate someone I knew they weren't protecting as attentively, or I'd do something to throw it all into chaos—something along the lines of setting off a bomb. The object wouldn't be to kill a large number of people but to frighten them…to let them know that I wasn't sleeping, that I could lash out at them at any time._

That, of course, begged the question of opportunity. How would an agent sneak into the ceremony or the reception, do the deed, and escape without being caught? Of all possible weapons, only a wand would excite no suspicion at the agent's entrance, and a deadly curse could be traced back to a wand with ease—especially since the fleeing assassin or saboteur would be quickly caught.

__

The logistics involved make it too much of a hassle, then, she concluded uneasily. _They're expecting Voldemort to strike, so they'll be on their guard…which is why he _won't_ do anything. There's too much chance of his agent being caught, and the annoyance and risk would outweigh the benefit._ She snorted. _The one time bureaucracy actually proves to be a _deterrent_ to crime, rather than a motivation for it._

It all made sense, in the end.

A little too much sense, as it turned out.

****

PRESENT: MID-JULY

The inauguration itself went off without a hitch, but that had never been in question. The prime timing for a murder would be during the reception, when hundreds of people were hobnobbing and milling about, providing ample cover for deadly deeds. So it was that Meli found herself relaxing during the time at which most of the people around her were tense and tensing up when the others were just beginning to relax.

It didn't help that she absolutely despised dress robes. The only advantage she could see to the despicable, heavy things was that they were voluminous enough to afford her plenty of concealment for her new wand, her shiny Unspeakable badge, and her fists should the need arise for her to use them.

Dumbledore, by contrast, seemed entirely at-ease, both in his dress robes and in the setting, and well he might be, she thought irritably. He had information that nothing was going to happen—or rather, he hadn't any information to the contrary. She wondered, as the caterers opened the buffet tables, if any of his spies had specifically told him that there were no plots afoot.

__

Why can't I let that go? she thought in annoyance. _Why can't I just accept for once that things won't always happen when you expect them to? I need to calm down and trust what I know._

Unfortunately, what she knew was that there was absolutely no good reason for Voldemort _not_ to have something in the works. He was a man who throve on terror, and it made no sense for him to pass up an opportunity to terrorize the entire magical community simply because something big was coming up in September.

__

Chill, she told herself firmly, borrowing one of Andrea's favorite pieces of advice. _Just take it a minute at a time. Worrying won't do anything to prevent something from happening._

She tugged uncomfortably at the lacy fringe on her cuffs, then turned her gaze to Dumbledore, at whose side she stood.

"I don't believe you've met the new Minister of Magic?" he said conversationally.

"No, sir," she replied. "Have you?"

Dumbledore nodded, his eyes twinkling. "A decent enough gentleman," he told her. "And single, as I understand it."

Meli gave him a withering look. "How nice for him."

"Would you like to be introduced?"

She arched an eyebrow. "As long as the topic of courtship never comes up," she answered darkly, "it would be an honor."

It wouldn't, really; she liked the new Minister's politics and attitude a bit more than she had liked Fudge's, but she had a deep-seeded distrust of authority in general and of the Ministry in particular, and she didn't see how any Minister of Magic could be at all trustworthy or honorable. Still, it fell to her to guard him tonight, and if it meant putting up with a bureaucrat and Dumbledore's supposed attempts to set her up with said bureaucrat, she would do it. The Ministry, and the Minister of Magic for that matter, served a purpose that was largely in the interest of the Order, and for that reason alone she would defend both.

Minister Ghen saw them coming, and he very obviously took pleasure in the sight, much to Meli's vexation. She hadn't been thinking of anything other than the character she was taking on when she'd settled on the look of her _glamourie_, but it seemed that she'd gone a little too far on the prettiness scale, at least where the Minister of Magic was concerned. He was looking a little too appreciatively at her coifed blonde hair, her Grecian features, and what little figure was visible beneath her offensive pale blue robes. Mindful of her role, however, Meli forced a smile and determined to ride it out.

"You could have warned me," she muttered under her breath to Dumbledore.

"Warned you?" he countered innocently. "I thought you realized that gentlemen prefer blondes."

She gritted her teeth but smiled all the wider as they came within earshot of their goal.

"Albert," Dumbledore said heartily. "How are you this evening?"

The Minister of Magic nodded politely in acknowledgment. "Quite well, thank you," he replied in a thin, reedy voice that was not at all made for public address. "And how are you, Albus?"

"Cheerful as always," Dumbledore returned. "There's nothing like a nice party to revive the spirits after the weather we've had lately."

It had rained for the entire previous week, which had suited Meli's mood just fine. She was predisposed by everything else in her immediate life to be irked that the sky had dared to clear and the weather to warm on the precise day that she was stuck in a claustrophobic mass of people, clad in a disgusting set of dress robes, and watching for an attack that she had been told would not come, but which every instinct in her screamed was imminent.

"Nothing like a party," the Minister of Magic agreed, "to say nothing of companionship."

Meli caught herself just in time to make it seem that she had closed her eyes demurely rather than long-sufferingly. When she opened them again, Ghen was still smiling that dreadful appreciative smile.

Dumbledore affected surprise at the comment, as if he had forgotten entirely that Meli was there. "Oh, yes," he said. "How silly of me. Blanche, may I present to you Albert Ghen, the British Minister of Magic."

Ghen's smile broadened, showing his thin, yellow teeth. "My friends call me A. Ghen," he told her, leaning a little too far forward for her liking. "Get it? A. Ghen? _Again_?"

Meli felt her own smile freeze in place and hoped she didn't look flirtatious as she blinked several times while she processed what had just been said and determined that yes, he had, in fact, just shamed—flagrantly—the sacred and beloved art of puns. While the Minister of Magic was still laughing at his own witlessness, she darted a dark glare at Dumbledore, who merely smiled in return.

"Charmed, I'm sure," Meli said when Minister A. Ghen was once more paying attention.

"Albert," Dumbledore continued, as if there had been no pause at all in his introduction, "this is Blanche Ingraham, one of the documentarians I told you about. She's researching systems of government in magical communities all over the world, and I thought it would be helpful for her to see an actual British inauguration. We don't have them very often, you know."

"Not as often as some might wish," the Minister of Magic chortled, and Meli, who was among those some, had the sudden desire to put a fist through his repulsive teeth. "So how is your research going, Miss Ingraham?"

"It's _Mrs_. Ingraham, actually," Meli told him smoothly and had the satisfaction of seeing his infuriating smile slip by just the smallest bit. _Sorry, Headmaster,_ she thought unrepentantly, _but there are certain levels to which I refuse to sink. I could never pretend affection for a man who butchers puns. _"But to answer your question," she continued aloud, "quite well. I've just come from America, and I'm bound for Russia next week." She raised her eyebrows. "Do you know that a number of magical communities don't hold elections at all? They exist under a feudal system in which the most powerful families take political power and leadership is passed on to the eldest or most powerful child of each generation. It's rather fascinating to see where such a system has taken them."

Ghen frowned. "How do the ruling families handle the problem of Dark Lords?" he asked.

Meli regarded him coolly. "Many handle them in exactly the same way the British Ministry does," she replied. "They have security forces akin to Aurors who hunt down and destroy the threat." Her gaze turned hawkish. "But then, of course, there are those in which the ruling house _are_ Dark Lords, and they fight in rather a different way, as you can imagine. Fortunately, those are few and far between, and the dynasties generally don't last as long as their founders might have wished."

"Fascinating," Ghen muttered, but he seemed to find it otherwise. "So where are you originally from, Mrs. Ingraham? Your accent is rather difficult to trace."

Meli smiled. "I'm told I was born in Germany," she answered. "But as I have no memory of the event, I shall have to take others' word for it. Since then, I've lived more or less everywhere. You will not go far amiss if you guess from my accent that I came from America, Scotland, Germany, Australia, Sweden, or Argentina. In truth, I've come from all, and a few besides."

Politeness, of course, then dictated that she inquire after _his_ origins, and within ten minutes the conversation was off in the fairy-land of location, location, location. She was obliged to give her opinion of tourist spots the world over, and the Minister of Magic felt obliged to give his opinion on every single place he had ever visited, as well as a few dozen places he hadn't been but nevertheless had settled ideas about. Dumbledore offered his own commentary in a few spots, but for the most part he seemed content to stand there nodding while Meli was forced to carry on a conversation that bored her silly. The one good thing about the whole mess of it was that she was able for awhile to forget the niggling in the back of her mind that insisted she should be on her guard against something that she knew would not be coming.

That niggling never did quite return, but it was not on account of it not being justified. Meli was lost in the conversation until it was abruptly and finally interrupted by a tremendous commotion at the near end of the Great Hall.

Everyone turned with a single motion toward the ruckus, and Meli's breath caught sickeningly in her lungs when she saw what was happening. A nondescript man that she nonetheless recognized as the head of the Department of Mysteries, was convulsing and spewing blood and foam from his mouth. The people around him moved away to give him space as he seized, but more air did nothing for him. He clawed at the collar of his robes and fought for even a snatch of breath, then dropped suddenly to the floor, where his convulsions continued for the briefest of moments before cutting off with a finality that left no doubt as to his fate.

There was no time for a pause, however, for from the other end of the room now came a blood-curdling scream. Again the body of people whirled to find another man—the head of the Department of Aurors—falling to the ground with what looked like an arrow protruding from his chest.

__

Mother of God, Meli thought, even as her instincts took over. Before the Auror hit the floor, she had already tackled the Minister of Magic and wrestled him down, protecting him with her body from any potential threat. Dumbledore fell to the floor nearby, with an Auror offering him similar protection as chaos broke out around them.

The air exploded into numerous screams and cries, and the body of people dissolved into individuals, each out to save his own life or, in the case of the professional protectors among them, to save the lives of those nearest them. In the confusion, Meli thought she heard both Snape and Zarekael's voices calling out for Dumbledore, but she couldn't be sure; the only reality in her mind was the realization that somehow, impossibly, she had been right.

__

Always trust your instincts, Crimson had once chided. _Logic will get you so far, but psychology isn't logical, and it's what the world turns on. Trust your read of people above your read of the facts, and you'll rarely find yourself in a bind._

Meli shook her head grimly. She had trusted her instincts, after a fashion, had even made known her concerns to Dumbledore when she, Snape, and Zarekael had been making security arrangements for the Great Hall. But both of them had allowed themselves to be lulled by the spies' reports—

__

Did Severus or Zarekael know? she suddenly wondered. _And if so, when? And if sooner than today, _why_ didn't they say anything?_

A green wall of fire exploded into existence around Dumbledore and the Minister of Magic then, and she found that she had more pressing issues to deal with. The fire was, so far as she could tell, ordinary flame apart from its color, but she wasn't willing to toss a hex at it to find out. Even if it was normal fire, however, it stood between her and the outside world, and to her way of thinking, it offered more danger than protection to everyone inside of it. If something should happen, there was no available escape route, and if the fire was truly real, it would be looking for fuel and might very well spread inward. The roar of the flames was subdued, and she could hear noises both inside the circle and outside. Beside her, Dumbledore was struggling to his feet, and beyond the green wall she heard Zarekael arguing with what sounded like at least half a dozen extremely angry Aurors.

"It's all right, Zarekael!" Dumbledore called out. "I'm fine. You can recall the fire now."

There was a breath of wind, and the green flames disappeared. Meli waited to be sure that there was no immediate apparent danger to Ghen, then slowly climbed to her feet and helped him to stand, as well.

Snape and Zarekael stood almost side by side, glaring venomously at the Aurors standing between them and Dumbledore. The Aurors, who had possessed little sense of humor before the disaster of the evening, had lost all trace of it in the wake of their chief's death, and they were not in the mood to stand for walls of fire appearing out of nowhere in close proximity to the Minister of Magic. Dumbledore, fortunately, intervened in their behalf, and the Aurors gave way, but not before one that Meli recognized as the infamous Scatcherd ordered them to stay close by for questioning.

Dumbledore, once assured of his teachers' safety, stepped purposefully toward the body closest at hand, and Meli, mindful of annoying the Aurors further, went with him, entrusting Ghen to his own security.

The dead Minister of Mysteries lay almost exactly as he had probably fallen, miraculously unscathed by the pandemonium that had ensued in the wake of his death. His body was undesecrated by any weapon's marks, and on the surface, at least, it appeared that he could well have died from a medical cause.

"This wasn't epileptic," Meli murmured, just loudly enough for Dumbledore to hear. Her own "seizures" weren't epileptic, of course, but she had made a thorough study of true epilepsy in order to be able to discuss her supposed condition in an educated manner. Based upon both the Unspeakable's symptoms and the context surrounding his death, the odds were high that he had died not from a freak medical condition but from a particularly nasty poison.

Dumbledore set his jaw grimly but nodded and led the way to the other body. He passed Snape and Zarekael on the way, and Meli noticed uncomfortably that he neither looked at nor spoke to them.

__

He's sure they know something about this, she thought. _It makes sense, I suppose; they're both Potions experts, so it stands to reason that any poison Voldemort used might have been brewed by one or both of them._

The Auror's body, in contrast with that of his counterpart, showed no signs of a painful death, nor was there any way that anyone could mistake it for accident. Meli had caught a brief glance of a bolt in his chest, but now on examination, she found that two bolts had been fired at him—one centered in his heart and the other centered in his eye.

She swallowed. This had been the work of a well-practiced assassin. The shooter was a marksman who knew enough to be certain of his mark by firing a second sure shot, and, moreover, who had been smart enough to sneak a compact bolt-firing weapon, probably a crossbow, into the Great Hall in spite of all of the security arrangements made.

__

And to be doubly certain, I'd be willing to wager that he tipped the bolts with poison.

She felt suddenly very ill, and her condition wasn't at all helped by the look on Dumbledore's face when he straightened again to face her. Something dangerous and deadly had supplanted the twinkle in his eyes, and she suspected, without knowing quite why, that he knew how security had been so completely thwarted.

"Stay at my side, Rasa," he told her softly. "This is not over yet."


	7. Schism

****

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is your last warning for a very, very long time. This is a **dark** story and will probably shatter some cherished notions carried over from its prequel. If you had rather read something kinder and gentler, leave now and go to the library, and there you will find (unless, of course, it's checked out) a happy little vomitous tome called _The Littlest Elf_ (highly recommended by one of my literary heroes, one Lemony Snicket) Or, failing that, ask me for a list of fics my roommate and I have stumbled across which…hm…did not pass our initial inspection.

You have been warned. If I get nasty emails or reviews after this chapter, I will not be sympathetic.  
AE

****

Chapter 7: Schism

The Aurors did not at first seem inclined to permit Meli to follow the headmaster's wishes. Their chief had fallen, and they were determined to do their damnedest to figure out how it had happened and to capture and punish the culprit. Toward that end, they sealed off all entrances and exits to the Great Hall and questioned everyone present. Once a person had been interviewed, they were escorted by Aurors, either to their quarters if they had arranged to stay at Hogwarts, or to an approved apparation point just beyond the school's wards.

Blanche Ingraham did not appear to be anyone special, so the Auror in charge attempted to treat her like everyone else present. Snape and Zarekael were among the first questioned and escorted out, and shortly after their departure, Scatcherd pulled Meli aside for questioning. Unfortunately for Scatcherd and her superior, Meli was not in the mood to play ball.

"My orders are to remain with Headmaster Dumbledore," she told Scatcherd coldly.

Scatcherd snorted. "Your orders?" she repeated. "The only orders that matter here and now are _our_ orders, Missy, so I suggest you make other arrangements for the headmaster's arm candy." She caught Meli by the arm and made a try at forcibly leading her away.

"You will remove your hand from my person immediately," Meli ordered coldly. "Unless you want an interdepartmental incident. I highly doubt that the person from whom I take orders will be of a humor to put up with you at the moment."

"Unless that person outranks the acting head of the Department of Aurors," Scatcherd sniffed, "his humor doesn't concern me a whit."

Meli pulled out her badge. "It should," she said through her teeth.

Scatcherd took one look at the badge and backed away. "My mistake," she said lamely. She glared daggers at Meli, but faced with an Unspeakable, she was powerless to do much except take advantage of the opportunity to exit stage left rapidly.

"Well done," Dumbledore remarked, the twinkle flashing briefly before hiding again beneath cold steel. "Assistant Minister Ebony couldn't have done better."

Meli's smile froze in place for the second time that evening. "Assistant MInister Ebony?" she echoed.

"Soon to be Department Minister Ebony, unless I'm much mistaken," Dumbledore replied grimly. "I tell you only because you'll need to know her name when they begin questioning you." He sighed. "No badge will effect an escape from that, not even an Auror's."

Meli cleared her throat and changed the subject. "Do you know what happened here?" she asked.

It wasn't a good choice of topic, she immediately perceived. The headmaster's expression closed, and he narrowed his eyes. "Beyond two or three minor details," he answered, barely audibly, "I know exactly what happened here. My only hope is that my worst suspicions will be proven wrong in the end."

They fell silent then, and Meli stood, immovable, at Dumbledore's side until both he and she had been questioned by the Aurors and permitted to go, under guard, to their rooms.

Once she was alone in her rooms, Meli found herself without a script. Until the very moment she had closed the door in her escort's face, she'd had a role to play and a specific set of mannerisms, actions, and speeches that were expected of her. Now, however, her only standing order was to wait for Dumbledore's call.

After a few minutes of aimless wandering, she at last came to some resolution and walked over to the wardrobe. It was a simple matter to change out of dress robes and into a set of wine-red robes more suited for daily wear, and she did it mechanically. After a moment's thought, she likewise altered her appearance charm, then absently played at her hair until it reluctantly consented to stay out of her face.

By that time Dumbledore still had not called, so she wandered over to one of the bookshelves, which were sparsely populated in comparison with the ones she had at Snape Manor, but she nevertheless looked them over, hoping to find something of interest. She needn't have bothered, though, for in her present state of distraction, she was unlikely to be interested in much of anything aside from the matter at hand.

__

How could she have been so stupid? She had never trusted facts alone, except in matters involving timelines or hypothetical argument; facts, as Crim had often pointed out, were only the beginning of truth. She ought to have trusted her instincts, she ought to have—

What ought she to have done? What _could_ she have done? For all practical purposes, her hands were tied; Dumbledore had placed absolute faith in the intelligence reports, and what he said, went. She could, perhaps, have taken her concerns to Snape and Zarekael, who were also responsible for the security arrangements, but what could they have done, even the three of them together? Snape might have helped her to set up extra precautions, but she had the definite impression that Zarekael trusted Dumbledore's judgment absolutely. And what if, after all of those things had been done, the two department heads had still died?

__

And they would have done, she thought bitterly. As concerned as she was about security, her focus had always settled on the Minister of Magic or possibly one of the ambassadors. Never in a million years would she have thought of those two men as the preferred targets. All of her extra protections would have been in vain, for she would have been concentrating on protecting the wrong people.

These were unexpected targets, but, on reflection, they shouldn't have been. Of Cornelius Fudge's entire cabinet, only those two, Arthur Weasley, and Lucius Malfoy had survived, and of those four survivors, only three were targets, and the heads of the Aurors and the Unspeakables were the most desirable targets by far.

__

Something like this ought to have been obvious, Meli reflected. _We should have seen it coming, but we trusted too much in incomplete intelligence._

That was the other thing that pounded away in her mind. _Why_ had their intelligence been incomplete? She had reason to believe that Snape and Zarekael were in Voldemort's Inner Circle, and while that didn't necessarily make them privy to every plan of the Dark Lord's (she knew for a fact that the senior Crabbe and Goyle were also in the Inner Circle, and she was likewise aware that they were probably told little or nothing), they couldn't possibly have missed everything leading up to this…could they?

After all, there had been no warning about the assassination of Fudge—at least, no warning that the faculty had heard about, she reminded herself. She hadn't been Rasa then; she'd been Professor Ebony, and there had been no reason for her to know ahead of time that something like that was about to take place. It was entirely possible that Dumbledore had known about it—he'd certainly been much calmer then than he was now.

But Snape and Zarekael must have known something. They _must_ have done. The questions remained, though: How much had they known, when had they known, and why had they remained silent?

Her roving eye at last settled on a paperback she'd kept from her stint in America—one of the few pieces of American literature that didn't annoy her supremely. She pulled _The Raven and Other Writings_ from the shelf and flipped idly through it, passing by "The Murders in the Rue Morgue" and a handful of other short stories and drifting through the poetry section at the back.

She wasn't much in the mood for poetry, but some of it, at least, had the virtue of being short enough to hold her distracted attention to the end. Narrative demanded too much thought, so she bypassed the story-poems at the front, at last finding her way to two brief verses a few pages from the end.

__

Take this kiss upon the brow!  
And, in parting from you now,  
Thus much let me avow—  
You are not wrong, who deem  
That my days have been a dream;  
Yet if hope has flown away  
In a night, or in a day,  
In a vision, or in none,  
Is it therefore the less gone_?  
_All _that we see or seem  
Is but a dream within a dream._

I stand amid the roar  
Of a—

"Rasa!"

She looked up from the book to find Dumbledore's head floating in her fireplace. "Sir?"

"There is a meeting convening in my office," the headmaster told her. "Would you kindly come up?"

Meli closed the volume and nodded. "I'll be there presently," she replied.

She set Poe back on the shelf and stepped across to the fireplace as Dumbledore's head vanished. She waited for the flames to return to their ordinary color, then tossed in a handful of floo powder from the pot on the mantle and stepped a moment later into the headmaster's office.

Again, she was not the only one summoned. Snape and Zarekael stood miserably nearby, neither meeting either her eye or Dumbledore's.

__

Is it because they feel they failed? she wondered cautiously. _Or is it because they have something to confess?_

She did not receive a welcome, nor even a true acknowledgment of her arrival; her coming was simply a signal for Dumbledore to open two log books on his desk and set up a Dicto-Quill on each.

These were no ordinary Dicto-Quills by any means; it had required a great deal of magical improvement to elevate them to their present state. Each one was programmed, so to speak, to copy down verbatim everything said in its presence while it was active, and even beyond that, these Dicto-Quills changed color of ink and writing font for each different speaker. Dumbledore, for instance, was represented by wide, looping letters in bright orange, while Snape's words were in squared emerald green script. Meli, who had only just been assigned a log, now appeared on the pages in deep turquoise written print.

Snape and Zarekael shared a log because their activities were almost always interrelated. Rasa's log would very likely go off in a different direction, but when her activities intersected with those of the spies, Dumbledore made arrangement for one report to be recorded simultaneously in all logs concerned.

This was, not surprisingly, one of those occasions.

Rather than opening the floor to volunteers, however, Dumbledore looked squarely at Snape and Zarekael. "Report," he ordered.

And report they did, fumbling over words and stumbling over one another's narrative in their hurry to spell out a full confession of all that had passed. Meli felt her insides go hollow as she listened, as much because of what they were saying as because of the effect their words were having on Dumbledore. With every new detail they made known, the headmaster's jaw tightened, his face darkened, and his eyes grew harder and harder until they seemed to be nothing more or less than flint, wanting only steel to set them aflame and break Hell itself loose from its chains.

Not only had Snape and Zarekael known what was going to happen…they themselves had carried it out.

Snape had walked past the Unspeakable about twenty minutes before the drama unfolded and slipped poison into his drink, then, in the confusion resulting from that man's death, Zarekael had twice shot the Auror with a hand-held crossbow, which he had then evanesced before spinning away and running to Dumbledore's side.

"Why didn't you warn me?" the headmaster demanded, anger adding a strangled note to his tone.

It was Snape who answered, and Meli saw in his eyes the beginnings of a subtle defiance. "We had to succeed in this, or the Dark Lord would have suspected us," he said coldly. "And even if you would not have moved to prevent it from happening, it was necessary for your reaction to be fully genuine, or we would still have fallen under suspicion."

Once he was satisfied that Snape and Zarekael had recorded everything necessary for the public record, Dumbledore turned to Meli and demanded her version of the events. Due to her lack of warning that anything was going to happen, her report was much shorter and, thanks to her being in the middle of the scuffle, much less detailed. She could describe any of the shoes within spitting distance, as well as the fire that had temporarily walled her off from the chaos, but beyond that her only concern had been the safety of Dumbledore and Ghen.

At the completion of Meli's report, Dumbledore removed the Dicto-Quills and slammed the logs shut, then leaned forward, the heels of his hands on the edge of his desk, to glare at Snape and Zarekael.

"When did you know about this?" he asked softly, his lack of volume ten times more terrible than a shout would have been.

Father and son lowered their eyes to the stone floor. "Three weeks ago," Zarekael said.

Meli swayed on her feet and saved herself from a fall only by catching the corner of Dumbledore's desk in one hand. They had known, long before the security arrangements were put in place, not only that these assassinations were planned but that they would be the ones carrying them out. They had known, when Dumbledore expressed his optimism about the event in their hearing, that his confidence was unfounded and that they would be proving it so with their own hands. They had known, when they installed the security precautions in the Great Hall, that they could be flouted, how best to bypass them, and that they themselves would be doing precisely that in a week's time.

Snape and Zarekael had known everything…and they had told no one.

__

This is not happening, she thought furiously, hatefully fighting the tears welling up in her eyes. _This is impossible. I know these men—they're Severus and Ruthvencairn. These are not monsters. They're spies, not true Death Eaters, and if somehow they did this, it still wasn't them._

When she had spoken to Zarekael after learning his role in the Goldens' deaths, he had told her plainly that the Goldens' murderer and her friend were the same man, but she had rejected those words. She had drawn a line with him, just as she had done with her grandfather, breaking them in two. On the one side were Voldemort and the Death Eater; on the other were her grandfather and Ruthvencairn. Her grandfather had been consumed by Voldemort, but even now she refused to see them as one and the same; she loved her grandfather, and she could not love Voldemort. They were separate entities, and so were Zarekael Ruthvencairn and the Death Eater who bore his shape.

So, too, were Severus Snape and the Death Eater who looked like him.

It had been the Death Eaters, the Dark sides, who had done these things—the Death Eaters and not her friends. What she was hearing wasn't fully true.

It couldn't be.

Dumbledore, unfortunately, didn't seem to see it the same way.

"You took advantage of your knowledge of the security arrangements," Dumbledore bit out. "You deliberately deceived both Rasa and me. I _trusted_ you, and this borders on an outright betrayal!"

Meli felt that she ought to speak in the spies' defense, but she had no idea of what she could possibly say; certainly nothing she said would successfully calm Dumbledore. And in any case, there was a part of her that still spoke reason to her, and, not having compartmentalized either Snape or Zarekael, it whispered that Dumbledore's words were in every way true.

The impact of his accusation hit the two spies like a physical blow. Snape rocked slightly at its delivery, then recovered enough to look directly at the headmaster again, his eyes a tragic marbling of defiance and pain. Beside him, Zarekael wilted and lowered his head in shameful misery; he, unlike his father, submitted to Dumbledore's anger without argument and without a word. Meli witnessed his reaction with a pang, sensing that the bolt had penetrated far deeper than his physical heart, and the accusation with which it was tipped would spread through him as thoroughly as any poison. Whatever punishment Dumbledore doled out, it could never approach the level of damage already done just by those words.

__

Well-earned words, that infuriating reasonable voice whispered insistently. _This _was_ a betrayal, and not only of Dumbledore._

"Did you consider at all," the headmaster continued, "that your actions in this matter lay you open to suspicion of being double-agents?" He looked from one to the other. "After tonight, I have no way of knowing that your loyalties are truly to me. How am I to know that your only reason for keeping me ignorant was for the purpose of plausible deniability? How much is it worth to you, this genuine reaction that you deemed so necessary?"

Something stirred in Snape's countenance, a flicker that was almost too rapid to be seen, but Meli caught it, if only just barely: an old hurt that far predated this confrontation, mingled with a kind of hopeless anger that she had never seen in him. It was gone immediately, though, buried beneath the familiar defiance and pain.

"What exactly did you expect us to do?" he demanded, his voice raising slightly in volume. "We weren't just protecting the Order, we were protecting _you_. If you hadn't reacted properly—and we _know_ you wouldn't have done—it would have placed you, us, and the Order in jeopardy. What more could we have done?"

Dumbledore had no chance to reply, however, for Zarekael leapt into the fray in his behalf. "Stop," he ordered coldly, his own voice raising. "He hasn't said anything that isn't true. We _earned_ this, Severus."

Snape now turned on him, his eyes blazing with an intensity that spoke, not of the current pain, but of that deeper, older hurt. "We talked this over," he snapped. "We agonized over the decision, and we decided that this was the only way. He has no right to make us feel guilty for doing our job! If he wants information, he has to accept the way in which it's obtained and the people who obtain it!"

Zarekael shook his head firmly. "Yes, we agonized; yes, we agreed it's the only way," he conceded. "But that doesn't mean that what we did was right!"

"_None_ of what we do is right, Zarekael!" Snape countered, his voice now reaching a proper shout. "But that doesn't stop us from doing it! Why should this time be any different?"

__

Take that, the infuriatingly logical side of Meli's mind taunted. _If they're separate people, the Death Eaters and your friends, how is it that your friends agonize over the Death Eaters' deeds?_

Shut up, her will snapped back.

"Everything we do is wrong," Zarekael conceded, "but the one thing we always retained was our integrity—we have _never_ betrayed the trust of the Order. Our word means _nothing_ now, Severus—we've sacrificed our personal honor this time, and it was the only thing left to us."

Snape narrowed his eyes in anger. "As far as anyone else is concerned, we never _had_ any honor," he hissed through his teeth. "The only reason our word meant anything at all is that it came through Albus Dumbledore. It's _his_ word and _our_ blood, and that's all anyone cares about!"

Again the headmaster tried to break in; again he was overridden by Zarekael. "We made our choice," the apprentice stated. "We knew that what we did was wrong, and now we're paying the penalty for it. Reputation didn't matter because _we_ knew the truth, but now we _are_ what everyone else thinks us to be!"

"Knowing the truth is scant comfort when you're drowning in loneliness and screaming in your nightmares," Snape told him coldly.

His son shook his head. "Believe me, I know that as well as you do," he replied. "But what comfort do we have now? Little though it was, it was still _something._ What do you have to show the gods now?"

Meli blinked in surprise. Had this been a religious debate the whole time and she simply missed it?

Or perhaps it had always been a religious matter for Zarekael, which was why he was so fervently set in the view he set forth, and a nonreligious matter for Snape, which was why he had not for a moment considered the other's view.

She was wrong, however, for instead of dismissing the question, Snape answered firmly, "That I am relentlessly and uncompromisingly working to undermine a Dark Lord, and while the means may be foul, the ending is worth it. What better way to show dedication to the cause than to allow the destruction of your very self?"

Zarekael again shook his head, anguish reflecting in his eyes. "There must be a balance between benefit and destruction, Severus," he said. "What has this destruction gained us? Where is the benefit from this sacrifice? Yes, we had to do it…but did it truly balance out? If there is no balance, we risk becoming the very evil we're fighting."

Dumbledore at last managed to interpose. "Enough!" he snapped. "This arguing will resolve nothing." He surveyed the two of them, the first traces of sorrow surfacing in his own troubled countenance. "There is nothing more for me to say," he told them. "It will require a great deal of time and work for you to regain my trust, gentlemen. How much…even I cannot say."

He sank heavily into his chair and shook his head wearily. "You're all excused for the night," he sighed.

Snape hesitated, perhaps considering whether or not he should stay to say whatever it was that was still on his mind, but Zarekael departed at once, Meli in his wake. She wanted to be as far away as possible from anything reminding her of the confrontation, including the room in which it had taken place.

She hadn't been intentionally following Zarekael, and it certainly wasn't her purpose to catch up to him, but she did both and found herself walking rather awkwardly two paces back. They were going the same way, at least until they came to a cross-corridor, so, with an inward sigh, she stepped resolutely forward and offered him the closest thing to an apologetic smile she could manage under the circumstances.

"Sorry," she said hesitantly. "We seem to be going the same direction. Do you mind if I walk a little way with you?"

Zarekael nodded morosely but made no other reply.

Meli fell in step beside him, but it was strange walking with him when, ostensibly, they were complete strangers. "By the way," she said, again sounding as hesitant as she felt, "I'm Mary Jane Wilks."

He summoned up a scrap of amusement, then nodded again. "Pleased to meet you, Miss Wilks," he replied quietly.

They walked on in silence for a few minutes, then rounded an L-junction and found themselves in a stretch of corridor with no ready escape and Sirius Black approaching from the other direction.

Meli felt her cheeks warm and knew that her eyes must be burning with hellfire. She wouldn't have been pleased to meet Black at the best of times, but the current circumstances surrounding her and Zarekael's presence there gave her every reason to doubt that the three of them could escape the situation without a fight. Black had indeed been cleared by Peter Pettigrew's death, and it seemed that he very much enjoyed showing up at Hogwarts and parading through its corridors for all to see. He had somehow managed to miss meeting up with either Meli or Zarekael prior to this, but there was no way of avoiding such a meeting now.

Meli swore viciously under her breath, the sound inaudible to Black, who was still too far away, but quite discernible to Zarekael's sensitive ears.

The hated animagus never slowed his swaggering gait until he came within perhaps five paces of the others. There he halted and made an insulting show of looking Zarekael up and down, conveying quite clearly the impression that he didn't approve of what he saw.

"Ah," he said at last. "You must be Snape's spawn. Zakarl, is it?"

Anyone else might have been given the benefit of the doubt for an erroneous pronunciation of Zarekael's name, and in almost any other context, even Black might have done, but Meli, for one, was predisposed to think him guilty of doing it intentionally, and her temper was hanging by a thread in any case. Given that he had to have heard Zarekael's name properly pronounced several times during his seemingly pointless and certainly annoying visits to Hogwarts, it was impossible for her to conclude that he honestly did not remember the correct way of it. She widened her eyes in a hateful glare, to which Black was apparently impervious.

Zarekael, by contrast, winced, but, Dumbledore's stinging words about trust still ringing in his ears, he mustered up a civil tone. "It's _Zarekael_," he corrected mildly. "And you are…?"

Black offered a ridiculous foppish bow and smiled mockingly. "Sirius Black, at your service," he replied. "Perhaps you've heard of me? Of course you have. Snivellus and I go way back."

That was too much for Meli. "Keep a civil tongue in your head, Black, or I'll happily rip it out," she snapped.

He turned his derisive eyes on her now. "And who is your _charming_ companion, Zakarl?" he asked.

The repetition of the mispronunciation was a clear indication, if any had been necessary, that Black hadn't made a simple mistake the first time. Somehow, though, Zarekael held on to his temper and said, his voice shaking with the effort of civility, "This is Miss Wilks."

"Miss Wilks," Black echoed, rolling the syllables out of his mouth in a way that awoke in Meli the desire to emasculate him. "Miss Wilks. Didn't your daddy teach you about keeping your place?"

She chilled him with her most cold-blooded smile. "No," she replied silkily. "But my _grand_daddy taught me about putting pricks in _their_ place. Would you like a demonstration?"

It was a bluff, really, but her manner of delivering the threat seemed to awaken a doubt even in Zarekael's mind, to judge by the quick sidewise glance he dashed her way. She rarely spoke so casually about any aspect of her childhood, particularly any part of it dealing specifically with Voldemort, and she had never, in her memory, done so in this sort of context.

Black, of course, could have no idea that the "granddaddy" in question happened to be a Dark Lord, but he had picked up the message that that worthy gentleman was not a pleasant person and certainly was no one to be trifled with. His self-satisfied smirk slipped noticeably, but something malicious sparked in his eyes.

__

He's going to go for broke, Meli thought, her feelings in the matter strangely torn. A part of her wanted nothing more than an excuse to hex him into oblivion, even while another part of her marveled at his brazen stupidity in even considering such a move. After all, even the uneducated eye could discover by now that Zarekael was nearing the limit of what he would take, and it was quite clear that Mary Jane Wilks had already passed that point. If Black pushed them too much further, there wouldn't be enough of him to pour into a thimble and deliver to Harry Potter.

__

A thimble-sized urn, she thought off-handedly, even as she waited for Black to make his life-ending move. _Do they make those, or would we have to transfigure something?_

"If I thought you had the balls," Black retorted at last, "I might actually scrounge up some fear for my health, but seeing as I do that you're nothing more or less than a self-important little bitch who thrives on scaring lesser men than myself, I won't dignify your empty threat with so much as a drop of my sweat."

Somewhere during this speech, Meli's temper had passed the wall of emotion and settled into cold calculation. She thought it entirely possible that she could at any time rip off his arm and beat him to death with it and feel no twinge of emotion. While it was a dangerous state in which to be, it did afford her one advantage that was denied Zarekael: detachment. She lost the emotional drive to commit immediate violence and permitted herself to stand, staring at Black and musing over his last statement. Where a moment before she might very well have been using this same time to hex him with something truly malevolent, she now spent it in deconstructing his insult, examining its structure, and determining that he'd done a half-rate job at it. It was her intent to explain to him, in absolute detail, where he had gone wrong and how he could have honed the blade of his words and _then_ to hex him nastily, but she never did have the chance.

Zarekael had not passed the wall as Meli had done, and while that meant that Black was not faced with the freakish, hollow countenance of a man who had left himself, it also meant that he was not dealing with someone who was able to step back and speak diplomatically. The petty animagus had not inspired a rage—not by a long shot—but he had insulted Zarekael in every point, kicking a man who was already down for no other reason than that he bore some stupid ancient grudge against Zarekael's father. The mangling of a name was dreadful but could be borne, as could, if necessary, the jabs against Snape, but those combined with the gross insult of both a lady and one of the apprentice's few friends proved to be too much, and the full force of all of them together quite overcame the restraint of his recent meekness.

He drew himself up, eyes blazing, and glared down at Black. "You, sir," he uttered through his teeth, "are a juvenile, ill-mannered, ill-bred, unkempt _cur_. _No one_ should speak to a lady in such a way." He actually sneered at Black in a manner very like Snape's. "Didn't the Dementors teach you better manners?"

Something bitter-tasting hit the inside of Meli's mouth, prickling at the roof and gums, and she felt as if she'd taken a physical blow to the stomach. Zarekael hadn't touched Black, but he had still managed to score a hard punch beneath the belt.

__

No doubt about it, she reflected thoughtfully. _Full points to Ruthvencairn for style, substance, and pun-related subtlety._

Black sneered back, but his expression lacked the full conviction Zarekael had employed. "Like father, like son," he retorted. "You're hiding behind words because you know you can't take me man to man." And then he had the temerity to reach out and _shove_ his opponent.

Meli stared at the animagus in open shock, then looked back to Zarekael, expecting to see a drawn wand. Instead, the apprentice brushed himself off and gazed disdainfully down his nose at Black. "Reputations can be made or lost on the basis of what is said and what is not," he said softly.

__

If he'd thought through what he just said, he wouldn't have said it, Meli thought numbly. _There's no way he would bring the row with Dumbledore into this._

Zarekael wasn't finished, however. "Only the intellectually stunted equate power with strength or might," he continued coldly, "while cities can rise or fall at a word. More often than not, boasting and making a show of physical force are compensation for actual impotence." He arched a derisive eyebrow. "Are you compensating for something, Mr. Black?"

There was a quick, sweeping motion, and Black had his wand pointed at Zarekael. Before he had brought it fully to bear, however, he found that Meli, too, had drawn and was holding her wand in a far steadier grip. "I'd put that away if I were you," she advised darkly, "or your manhood will no longer be in question."

Black seemed momentarily inclined to argue, but when she shifted her aim suggestively, he relented and lowered his wand.

"Bloody Snapes and their girlfriends," he muttered ungraciously. "Never a creative one in the lot."

Meli narrowed her eyes. "Why don't we just part ways now," she suggested coolly. "While all of us can do so under our own power."

Under the direction of her still-leveled wand, Black stepped aside, permitting Meli and Zarekael to pass him. As if to restate the point that Meli was under his protection, Zarekael offered his arm to her, and she walked with him, arm-in-arm, until the nearest cross-corridor, where they parted ways and went off by themselves, as previously planned, to brood on the other events of the evening.

Perhaps as a sort of harsh, unspoken punishment or perhaps in an attempt to give Zarekael a chance to redeem himself as soon as possible, Dumbledore summoned the apprentice and Meli soon afterward and informed them that their mission to Surrey would go forward as planned. While Meli found a small comfort in the fact that the headmaster still placed enough trust in the spies to allow them still to carry out missions, she saw, quite plainly, that it was likewise an opportunity for further grief; this would be a touchy task under the best of circumstances…but even a criminally optimistic individual could not reasonably expect the best now.

She planned their outing, chose her _glamourie_, hoped for the best…but she did not hold her breath.


	8. Take Two

****

AUTHOR'S NOTE: A little side-note for the amateur philologists and other curious parties out there. Some of the names in this story have rather less obvious pronunciations than might be expected. Here, for your personal edification, are some of them, with the pronunciations that Snarky and I use.

Zarekael- ZAHR-eh-kale

Ruthvencairn- RIH-vehn-kehrn

Neshdiana- NEHSH-dee-AH-nah

(and for anyone who didn't get it from Peeve's rhyme in "Selkirk") Meli- MEH-lee

This has been a public service announcement, written, directed, produced, and otherwise meddled-with, by Skulker Enterprises. Wombats rule. Shop at Zonko's. Anca chose a _reeeeally_ bad time to go off caffeine!  
AE

****

Chapter 8: Take Two

PRESENT: LATE AUGUST

Had anyone been around to see it (and of course no one was), that person would have witnessed the arrival of two respectable-looking individuals. They appeared with a crack, as from thin air, in an alleyway not far from Number Four Privet Drive.

The taller of the two wore a well-tailored suit and possessed salt-and-pepper hair, a distinguished-looking goatee, and benevolent blue eyes. His associate was clad in a simple but pretty dress and wore her long chocolate brown hair in curls that might be either natural or iron-induced. Each carried a professional-looking black case and walked with a genteel gait. Though their dress was modern, they might otherwise have stepped out of a novel of manners.

This respectable pair glanced at one another, then, with the lady on the gentleman's arm, proceeded from the alleyway to Number Four, where the gentleman rapped at the door.

When Petunia Dursley opened it and saw them, she looked as though she wanted to slam it in their faces, but the lady gently interposed.

"We're not Jehovah's Witnesses, and we're not selling vacuums," she stated in a low, clear voice. "Nor are we collecting for an orphan's fund. Are you Mrs. Petunia Dursley?"

Petunia hesitated but nodded.

The lady smiled, showing deep dimples in each cheek. "It's a pleasure to meet you," she said, setting down her case and extending her hand. "My name is Bella Rokesmith, and this gentleman with me is Ivan Gregoriyan. May we have just a moment of your time?"

Something about Miss Rokesmith's charming manner so disarmed Petunia that she agreed and invited both visitors in for tea. Miss Rokesmith apologized profusely for having come at tea-time and offered to come back later, and the final objections in Petunia's mind were overcome. She insisted that they stay for tea, adding that it was really no trouble at all—which, for someone of her efficiency, was quite true.

So it was that Miss Rokesmith and Mr. Gregoriyan found themselves and their cases in the sitting room with Vernon, Dudley, Petunia, and Harry. Vernon, perceiving that these were people to be impressed, put on his best manners and, with ill-concealed nods and glances, informed the boys that they were to do likewise. Mr. Gregoriyan bowed when introduced and murmured a word of thanks to his hostess, but after glancing quizzically several times at both Dudley and Petunia, he fixed his gaze on Harry with an expression of mild awe.

Neither visitor was from Surrey, nor even from England; Miss Rokesmith had a slight Scottish accent, and Mr. Gregoriyan's was an East European that might have been a peculiar combination of Russian with something else. As the conversation progressed, Miss Rokesmith proved to be the more vocal of the two, possibly because English was her first language.

For the first half-hour or so, they engaged merely in small-talk, but at the end of that time, Petunia cleared her throat and smiled. "So what brings the two of you here today, Miss Rokesmith?" she asked.

The lady's countenance became immediately sober. "I won't deceive you, Mrs. Dursley," she replied. "Indeed, I should never wish to. We've come on an errand of grave importance." She produced from somewhere and handed over a letter. "There is no easy way to say this, so I'll simply tell you plainly: Albus Dumbledore has sent us."

Immediately, the atmosphere changed from one of relaxed pleasantry to one of animosity. Both visitors, particularly Mr. Gregoriyan, looked pained.

"And what does _he_ have to say to _us_?" Vernon demanded harshly, his face starting to go purple.

Sadness shone in Miss Rokesmith's brown eyes. "I know that by now the Ministry will have sent someone to tell you that you're in danger," she told them. "Probably offered protection of some sort?"

No one nodded, but the glances traded by Vernon and Petunia were answer enough—as if their visitors hadn't known the facts of the matter.

"And I know," Miss Rokesmith continued, not acknowledging the exchange, "that that offer probably holds little appeal, for several reasons." She offered Vernon a tiny smile. "Mr. Dursley, I understand that you are an exemplary seller of drills. To go into hiding, you would have to give that up." Her smile now warmed Dudley. "Young Mr. Dursley, you attend a fine school that will make you into a fine man—and I see it has already started its work. Why should you wish to leave such an opportunity, the making of your future?" She looked last to a very thoughtful Petunia. "And for you, Mrs. Dursley, who are obviously so content here—the wife of a successful husband, the mother of a promising son, and the maker of a happy home—it would be just as hard for you to leave as for your husband or son."

Miss Rokesmith looked at each Dursley in turn, her smile going rueful. "And, given that your experience with magical folk has been rather limited and, I daresay, not generally pleasant, it's all the more understandable that you would hesitate to place yourselves in the hands of such strange and suspect folk." She spoke this indictment against herself and her people without a trace of irony, sarcasm, or bitterness, instead making it sound like a simple statement of fact.

The effect of her words on the Dursleys was remarkable. Vernon was nodding his agreement, Dudley was smiling as if for the first time in his life someone understood him, and Petunia looked distant and reflective.

"But you're here to ask us to go into hiding, aren't you?" she asked sadly after a moment of silence.

Miss Rokesmith looked shocked. "No, indeed!" she replied. "Knowing what we know—what I've just said—it would be a cruelty for us to ask such a thing!"

"But we do believe we've found a solution," Mr. Gregoriyan interposed quietly.

All eyes fixed on the gentleman.

"Mr. Gregoriyan and his business associate are jewelers," Miss Rokesmith explained. "They've devised a way for you to stay at home and yet be able to escape should You-Know-Who ever come knocking."

"An escape involving…jewelry," Vernon said, flatly unconvinced. "And how, exactly, does that work?"

Mr. Gregoriyan opened his case, which sat between his chair and Dudley's, and produced a tray of men's rings and watches. "Using a complex process of chemical and other treatments," he stated, "my associate and I were able to turn these ordinary items into portkeys."

His explanation elicited three blank stares. "Into what?" Dudley asked.

Mr. Gregoriyan looked to his British companion, who smiled. "Portkeys," she repeated. "Are you familiar with _Star Trek_?" At their confused nods, she continued, "Think of it as a site-to-site transporter. When you activate it, it'll take you from wherever you are to a safe place."

"The portkeys are voice-activated," Mr. Gregoriyan added. "We've brought with us a variety of men's and women's styles, in hopes of finding something to match your personalities and inclinations."

While he spoke, Miss Rokesmith produced a similar tray from her case, this one holding women's rings and pendants. Petunia's eye immediately fixed on one in particular.

"What about Dudley?" the Muggle lady asked absently, her gaze riveted on the flashy diamond ring.

"He may wish to choose from the men's fashions," Mr. Gregoriyan replied. "Or if he finds nothing to his liking there, I have some other styles suited to teenage boys that he may look at also."

Vernon scowled from the jewelry to the people who had brought it, but Petunia and Dudley looked over it with interest, the former obviously having more on her mind than a new accessory. Mr. Gregoriyan, noticing the ring that had drawn her attention, lifted it from its place with a flourish that drew all light in the room to it, then sent the light dancing away again in a dazzling spectacle.

"A three-karat diamond," he told her with the air of a practiced merchant, "flanked by solitaires, with a solid gold band. The perfect right-hand ring for the fashionable woman, easily explained as a loving gift from a doting husband."

With those words, he charmed Petunia as thoroughly as Miss Rokesmith had done with her smile. Even Vernon seemed a bit mollified…but then his countenance darkened with suspicion.

"And just how much would such a 'loving gift' cost me?" he asked, turning a baleful eye on the jeweler.

Mr. Gregoriyan looked him squarely in the eye. "Nothing," he answered. "It is our gift to you—"

"Codswallop!" Vernon spat. "You expect me to believe that claptrap? There's always a catch with you people—always a price! Maybe it'll cost us nothing _now_, but you or that conjurer you work for will demand an accounting later on!"

Mr. Gregoriyan, who had never appeared to be anything but a gentle and genuine elderly man, blinked in surprise at the strength and suddenness of Vernon's venom. Before he could say anything in his defense, however, Miss Rokesmith leapt verbally to the rescue.

"There's no need for such accusations, Mr. Dursley," she said, her tone frosting a bit. "We've come to you honestly and openly, out of concern for your safety, not for our pocketbooks. If money were the issue, we'd have brought you plain rings made of aluminum. As it is, though, we're trying to meet you halfway—"

"We never asked you here!" Vernon roared, surging to his feet and upsetting the teapot. It fell to the floor, unnoticed, and poured out its contents in peace. As the man of the house leapt upward, the other persons belonging to it shrank back to cringe in his wake. The two visitors didn't flinch, one because he was, of necessity, virtually unshakable, the other because her own ire was beginning to pique.

"None of us asked you to come into our lives," Vernon continued. "Not you, not Dingeldorf, not any of your kind—not even Harry asked for any of it, and he _is_ one of you! How _dare_ you come under our roof and impose on my wife's hospitality—"

"Vernon, please," Petunia interrupted, sounding anxious and even a touch desperate. "They can't help us if we turn up dead!"

"What makes you think they'll help us even if we don't?" her husband thundered back. "How do you know this isn't all a scam?"

"Vernon—"

"Quiet, woman!" He then launched into an impassioned speech that made no sense at all but which demonstrated that he had spent years resenting the magical world and everything pertaining to it. This served little direct purpose other than to provoke Miss Rokesmith, whose eyes blazed while she sank her teeth into her tongue, but it also provided cover for something else that happened.

Near the end of his father's tirade, Dudley, who'd had a good view of the rings still in Mr. Gregoriyan's case, deftly slipped his hand into the case and swiped one—a silver ring with an intricate rendering of a phoenix rising from flames. Only Harry saw this—or so he at first thought.

Dudley looked up casually, only to lock eyes with the suddenly very intent Mr. Gregoriyan.

"Put it on your finger," the jeweler said softly, and Harry started; all trace of Russian was gone from the old-looking man's accent, giving way to an accent he knew well and associated with only one person in the world.

Dudley, who knew neither Russian accents nor this one well enough to notice what was really only a slight alteration, did as he was told, his eyes wide.

"Now repeat after me," the jeweler ordered. "'Smeltings'."

"Smeltings," Dudley whispered.

"That is now the password," Mr. Gregoriyan told him. "If ever your life is in danger, that will activate the ring. Never take it off."

Unfortunately, their conversation had attracted the notice of Vernon, who swooped down on the jeweler—or Potions apprentice, as the case might be—with renewed vengeance. "**_What are you saying to him!_**" he all but screamed.

Mr. Gregoriyan looked sadly at him. "I merely asked him where he attends school," he answered quietly, "then warned him not to be forthcoming with such information, as the Dark Lord might try to obtain it."

"He's trying to help, Uncle Vernon," Harry protested, and that ended all argument. If Harry Potter was for it, Vernon Dursley, on principle, must be against it.

"Get out of my house and never come here again!" Vernon bellowed, slapping the jewelry trays into their carrying cases and pointing toward the door.

"Vernon!" Petunia pleaded, but she shrank away when he actually raised a hand to her.

"Stay out of it, woman!" he roared.

Miss Rokesmith seemed on the verge of angry tears as she packed her case, but still she held her silence. Mr. Gregoriyan, however, became even more desperate than Petunia was.

"You _know_ this is real, Mrs. Dursley," he called urgently as Vernon pushed and Miss Rokesmith pulled him toward the door. "Your family was targeted before—don't let Hyacinth's death be in vain! You _must_ take warning from it!"

This last cry ended with Vernon slamming the door in his face. The indisputable man of the house then returned to the mess he had made of his family, plainly in the mood to shout some more and thoroughly suspicious on top of it.

"And just _what_ in bloody hell was that old sod talking about just now, Petunia?" he asked dangerously.

She blanched, but she dared not refuse to answer. "My sister…Hyacinth," she replied shakily.

"The one who died in a car crash?" Vernon snapped.

She nodded hesitantly.

"The same way my parents died in a car crash?" Harry asked coolly.

His aunt nodded again, then burst into near-hysterical tears. "She was—horribly mutilated," she sobbed. "With a skull floating in the air above her. All we knew was a wizard killed her!"

"Why the hell didn't you ever tell _me_!" Vernon demanded.

"**_Because I knew what you'd say!_**" she screamed back at him. "And what good would it do to tell you? All it would do is make you angrier and more suspicious, and we've all had quite enough of that, I'm sure!"

"How _dare_ you!"

Petunia opened her mouth, came up speechless, then closed it again, whirled, and fled from the room. They heard her run up the stairs, and a few seconds later, the door to her and Vernon's room slammed forcefully enough to rattle the windows on the ground floor.

Vernon turned away from the place in which his wife had last stood and found both boys staring at him from paled faces.

"**_What?_**"

Harry swallowed. "Shall I clean up the tea things now or later?" he stammered, almost innocently.

Vernon glowered at him in hateful silence. Harry traded uneasy looks with Dudley, then cleared his throat. "I'll, um, just…come back later, then."

At his uncle's deepened scowl, Harry swallowed, then ducked out of the room, his cousin close behind him.

The two emissaries arrived in Dumbledore's office two hours later than expected, but when the headmaster opened his mouth to inquire, Zarekael quelled him with a look. "Don't ask," he advised darkly.

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows, but he acquiesced, instead opening the two logs and setting up each with their Dicto-Quills.

It was fortunate that the headmaster intended a simultaneous report on this occasion, for at the outset, at least, Meli had her tongue clamped firmly between her teeth, and she apparently had no intention of prying her jaw apart to talk. Zarekael, it seemed, would have to report for both of them.

He gave a precise, succinct report up to the point of his and Meli's rapid withdrawal from the Dursley residence, and there he stopped short.

Dumbledore paused to read over what had been said, then looked expectantly at the two operatives. "So far, there is nothing to account for a two-hour delay," he observed. "I find it highly unlikely that you became lost in the forest on your way back."

Zarekael winced. "You _really_ don't want to know," he told the headmaster.

Dumbledore arched an eyebrow and his countenance turned grave, a painful reminder to both operatives that Zarekael's trustworthiness, at least, was still in question. "I'm afraid I _have_ to know," he countered firmly.

Before Zarekael could make any reply, Meli overcame her sudden case of lockjaw and spouted it out: "It would seem that Petunia Dursley's not the only nosy neighbor on the street," she growled. "Someone—of course they wouldn't say _who_—heard Vernon Dursley bellowing his bloody lungs out and called in a domestic disturbance report. We hadn't made it past the front garden before we were surrounded by peelers!"

"There were two of them," Zarekael put in, shaking his head in exasperation. "I wouldn't say we were surrounded."

"_Blocked,_ then," Meli amended, forging right on ahead unhindered. "They were most certainly in our way, and bloody disagreeable on top of it! They stopped us for questioning—as if _we'd_ done something wrong!" She reached up and grabbed hold of Zarekael's head, which was still masked by the face of Ivan Gregoriyan. "I ask you: Could you _possibly_ associate such dashing good looks with the Dark Side?"

If she saw Dumbledore's smirk, she gave no indication—unless, of course, it was her provocation to go on.

"So some unpleasant words were spoken on both sides, and somewhere in there Dursley poked his head out of the front door to see what all the row was about—"

"Was it _absolutely_ necessary," Zarekael interrupted long-sufferingly, "to call Vernon Dursley a dunce-headed piss-bathing arse-sniffing overgrown marmoset with delusions of godhood?"

Meli crossed her arms and scowled at him. "_Yes._"

"_Then_ to tell the police officer that _he's_ nothing more than a glorified wombat with a badge?"

"It _needed_ to be said," she answered stubbornly.

Dumbledore rubbed at his brow as if to ward off a headache. "Oh, dear."

"We had to obliviate them to avoid arrest!" Zarekael sputtered.

Meli set her jaw. "I stand by what I said," she replied coldly. "If he had half the brains God gave to catsup, he'd have better sense than to gamble his family's lives like this, all on account of his bloody-minded pride. Maybe I was a bit…_cruder_ than you would have been in conveying that point, but everything I said is true."

"Even about the marmoset?" Dumbledore queried, the twinkle at last resurfacing in his eye.

Meli faltered a bit. "Well…maybe not the marmoset bit," she at last admitted. "But the peeler really _did_ look like a wombat—I'm _not_ retracting that!" She nodded forcefully as if, having proven her point, she had come, seen, and conquered.

Silence reigned for a long moment while both Zarekael and Dumbledore fought back grins. When he had mastery of his countenance, the headmaster cleared his throat.

"So Dudley, at least, has a ring," he observed, returning to the meat of the matter.

Meli started. "He does?" she asked in evident surprise. "I missed that somewhere."

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "I believe you were rather occupied with grinding your teeth at that point," he said sardonically. "Yes, Dudley slipped a ring from Zarekael's case, apparently thinking it a clever trick. That trick may very well save his life."

Zarekael nodded soberly. "Unfortunately, Petunia is still without one," he stated. "And I believe her to be interested in having one."

"I think that highly likely," Dumbledore replied gravely. "It was she who found Hyacinth, and unless I'm much mistaken, Petunia has no wish to meet the same fate."

Meli furrowed her brow. "Who _is_ Hyacinth?" she asked. "Both of you have mentioned her now."

"Hyacinth was the youngest Evans sister," Dumbledore answered. "She was murdered and mutilated as part of a Death Eater initiation near the beginning of Lily's seventh year here." He shook his head somberly. "I believe that may have been when Petunia decided to wash her hands once and for all of the wizarding world—she didn't realize that no Muggle, no matter what their ties to magical folk, is truly safe from Voldemort."

"She realizes it now," Zarekael told him quietly. "She was thinking even before she saw the rings."

"And now she'll die anyway because her rotter of a husband won't allow her protection," Meli said bitterly.

Dumbledore was silent a moment, then slowly shook his head. "Not necessarily," he countered.

Either Zarekael had been thinking along similar lines or he caught on faster than Meli did. "Her wedding ring," he murmured.

The headmaster nodded. "Her wedding ring."

"There are only two problems with that," Meli interposed cautiously. "First, how do we get it away from her in the first place, and secondly, how do we tell her how to activate it?"

"The first problem is the most easily solved, I think," Dumbledore replied. "There is, in the kitchens here, an unusually resourceful house elf who I believe would accept the job."

"As for telling her how to set and use the password," Zarekael added, "it's a relatively simple thing to knock at the door when her husband is away, return it, and give her proper instructions."

Dumbledore looked hawkishly at Meli. "That mission may very well go to you," he informed her. "Unless, of course, you don't think yourself up to the task?"

She smirked. "I can handle Petunia," she countered. "It's her husband I have issues with."

"And what pseudonym will you be using on that occasion?" Dumbledore asked. "Rose Maylie? Lucie Manette?"

"I'll go for someone with more personality, thanks," she growled. "And, just to throw you, someone _not_ from Dickens. Possibly Amy Eshton."

Dumbledore gave her a half-smile, then looked to the Potions apprentice. "I don't think I dare send Tippy for a week or so; Vernon Dursley is apt to be suspicious if his wife's ring disappears too soon after this."

Zarekael nodded. "I agree."

"How long will it take you and Severus to treat it?" Dumbledore asked.

Zarekael considered. "Six to eight weeks," he replied after a moment. "It would take less time if we had made the ring ourselves, but under the circumstances there's really no choice."

"Very true, unfortunately," the headmaster sighed. "I'll speak with Tippy this evening and send him for the ring as soon as possible."

The younger man nodded. "I'll inform Severus."

Meli, meanwhile, had fallen silent to ponder. When Petunia's death had been inarguable and a foregone conclusion, she had felt little but anger and despair. Now, though, when there was a sudden ray of hope, she felt instead an impatient, gnawing anxiety.

It was suddenly all too horribly clear to her that a great deal could happen in six to eight weeks.

****

FURTHER AUTHOR'S NOTE: I recently went back over the reviews for this story and noticed there were a couple that I had neglected to acknowledge in their places—very sorry! However, I intend to rectify that now.

Omaha Werewolf- Ah, yes, I wondered what you'd think of Lupin. As for the wand bit, Snarky and I are operating on the hypothesis that werewolves are solitary and territorial individuals who don't much care for one another's company. Since the core of Rasa's wand is not from the esteemed Professor Lupin, it doesn't like him and tried to get away from him. If he had been in his canine form, he would probably have returned the sentiment.

Cinammon- I apologize for not making it as clear as I could have hoped, but Rasa's "plucky sidekick-slash-valet" is the handsome and gracious Alfred, who in future chapters will demonstrate that he is indeed as sure-handed at burying bodies as at scrubbing toilets—although, regrettably, we couldn't figure out a way to have him bury a body _in_ a scrubbed toilet without departing a little too far from the plot.

AE


	9. AhLEEseeah RrrooEES

****

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Congratulations! You have now reached the first lengthy in-story disclaimer. Don't worry, they're made to last, so the next one won't come for quite some time.

The following two chapters feature a character of Mexican-American background. Before anyone runs off to the ACLU screaming about what a racist _perra_ I am, please consider the following.

I grew up in a Mexican-American neighborhood and attended a mostly Hispanic high school. I have no problem with most Hispanic people with whom I come into contact; indeed, I have great respect for their rich cultural heritage and their relentless pursuit of the American dream, and two of my greatest friends in high school and college were Hispanic. The majority of Hispanic people you will encounter in America are respectable and hardworking people who are proud of their heritage and proud of the future they are helping to build for their children.

The character you are about to…hm…_experience_…is **_in absolutely_** **no** **way** reflective of the greater Hispanic culture; rather, she is, as Meli herself admits, a stereotype of a small minority within the Mexican-American community in Denver (and possibly elsewhere). Lest you write her off as entirely nonexistent, however, she is actually a conglomeration of a number of girls with whom I attended school (in fact, when Snarky and my roommate Bet read the first draft of this chapter, some half-dozen names were dropped, only one of which was a girl I originally had in mind when creating this character). Please, don't think that she's representative of the entire community—she absolutely is _not—_and please don't think that she is in any way representative of _my_ views of Hispanics in general and Mexican-Americans in particular.

There are only two types of Mexican-Americans who bother me, and she represents them both: Those who forget they're Americans (and who are most definitely _not_ Mexican save by ancestry, their claims to the contrary), and those who insist on plugging up South Federal every Cinco de Mayo weekend. Random trivia: Mexican Independence Day is 16 September, not 5 May.

PS For any who might think my opinion of Cinco de Mayo cruising to be unfair: _I_ don't cruise _my_ car through Highlands Ranch, with a St. Andrew's Cross or a Rampant Lion draped over my hood, or a kilt flying from my aerial, on Robert Burns' birthday, even though I am every bit as Scottish as the Cinco de Mayo cruisers are Mexican. Maybe I'm deprived…but the truth is, I prefer to think of myself as an American with Scottish ancestry and cultural influence—and better things to do with my life. Call me crazy.

PPS And for any who might be wondering why I kept this chapter intact once it was pointed out that I would need a frackin' huge disclaimer at the beginning…well, there are a couple of reasons. First, this girl, as she is, is perfectly adapted to the situation, and I couldn't think how to make an equally well-adapted character who wouldn't eventually show signs of being this type of person anyway. And secondly…truth be known, I _am_ ultimately a Gryffindor, which means I'm pigheaded stubborn, and the minute someone decides to pick a fight with me over something, I'll stand my ground and find a way to work it out in the end. Even if it means writing out a disclaimer that requires about four drafts in order to settle proper wording, and nearly a page to spell out. (And you thought Snape and Dumbledore agonizing over Meli's obituary was entirely fictional—Pfft!)

__

Sigh. And if after all of this someone out there is _still_ offended, I'm sorry, I really don't know what to tell you except that I tried. If it's any consolation to you, this character would not have come into existence in her present incarnation if such people did not exist in the world. I try to save caricatures for my parody fics.

PPPS And no, I'm _not_ retracting what I said about Gryffindors! **_GEEZ!_ **People are so easily offended these days—**LIGHTEN** **UP!**

PPPPS Oh yes, and I almost forgot. WARNING: If you are the sort to be particularly sensitive on either Zarekael or Snape or Meli's account, you may wish to skip the conversation between Alicia, Almyra, and Chickadee. Remember the warning to fangirls in "Selkirk"? Yeah. It's about to come home to roost.

AE

** **

Chapter 9: Ah-LEE-see-ah Rrroo-EES

PRESENT: SEPTEMBER 

Meli heard nothing further about the Dursleys after that, but she assumed that Tippy had been dispatched as soon as reasonably possible to retrieve the ring, and she was likewise consoled by the thought that Zarekael and Snape were at work on the project immediately thereafter. What didn't enter her mind until she picked up the _Daily Prophet_ a few days before the start of the school term was that they might also be working on other, less rescue-oriented, projects, as well.

The summer, she ought to have remembered, was ending, and Voldemort had had an upcoming operation in September. The headline would still have caught her off-guard, since he struck instead at the end of August, but she nevertheless berated herself for thinking that things would continue peaceful has they had done since the infamous assassinations six weeks before.

It would also have caught her off-guard because of its content, but there again, she shouldn't have been surprised. If Voldemort had had the temerity to strike at both the Ministry and Hogwarts, it should have come as no great shock that he was also willing and able to attack Azkaban, especially given that Meli and several others were well aware that the Dementors were his allies.

According to the _Prophet_, which was just trustworthy enough to be more or less accurate, at least in the major details, an army of Death Eaters (eyewitness accounts varied in the true count, ranging from ten to one hundred twenty-seven—a number so precise that it was undoubtedly wrong) had stormed the island prison, freed all of Voldemort's imprisoned supporters, and rallied the Dementors, as well. Only the fact that a surprise inspection had been about to start had kept the Death Eaters from being as successful as they had hoped; several Ministry officials, about forty Aurors, and at least two Unspeakables had arrived just in time to get underfoot and give the escapees a run for their money. Casualties on both sides had been heavy, and while details were sketchy, the _Prophet_ was adamant in its claim that three-quarters of the Dementors had been destroyed.

Reading between the lines, Meli calculated that the Ministry forces were accurately described, the Death Eaters had outnumbered them about two-to-one, and between one-third and one-half of the Dementors had been either destroyed or otherwise put out of commission. The former feat required a very powerful wizard, and the latter required extremely specialized training, meaning that the putting out of commission, if it had been done, had been handled exclusively by the Unspeakables.

It was interesting, though, that the Ministry had let it be known that the Department of Mysteries was represented. She wondered briefly what possible purpose such a revelation could have served, but she soon let it drop; if she had understood even half of what was going on in the Department, she would probably be a top-level Unspeakable.

It certainly was noteworthy that the Department had had representatives there; it suggested, at least to her, that the Minister of Mysteries (_Aunt Amber_, she thought sardonically) had known that something was going to happen, which in turn suggested either that the Department had spies in Voldemort's Inner Circle or that there was an informational connection between the Order of the Phoenix and the Department of Mysteries. Hadn't Dumbledore mentioned before that he had a contact within the Department?

__

Very interesting, she reflected, then set aside the newspaper and went on with her work for the day.

xxx

Dumbledore summoned her to Hogwarts the following evening, and she found herself once more in the headmaster's office with others present. This wasn't a meeting of spies, however, and she considered, from the grim expressions all around, that that wasn't necessarily an improvement.

Snape was there, and so, too, was McGonagall, though whether she was present as the deputy headmistress or second-in-command of the Order remained to be seen. Meli knew only that she was probably not acting as the Head of Gryffindor House; if that had been the case, Flitwick and Sprout would have been present, as well.

"Minerva," Dumbledore said, after Meli had been offered a cup of tea, "I don't believe you've met Rasa."

McGonagall smiled tightly and extended a hand, which Meli shook. "Minerva McGonagall," the Transfiguration teacher introduced herself. "I'm honored to meet you."

"Jane Bingley," Meli replied. "And the honor is mine, I'm sure." She looked to Dumbledore. "What's happened, Headmaster?"

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Nothing yet," he answered. "Or rather, such is our hope. That will be for you to determine."

She raised her eyebrows. "I don't understand."

"We believe that the Dark Lord has been actively courting recruits among the student body," Snape told her quietly. "I have, of course, been vigilant in monitoring suspicious activities and behavior within my own House, but since everyone suspects Slytherins and no one suspects anyone else—"

"That's an unfair generalization, Severus," McGonagall broke in. "You know the rest of us have been—"

"With all due respect," Snape interposed, "not all of you have been." He arched an eyebrow. "Oh, Ravenclaw is well looked after, I'll grant you, and I have no doubt of your own watchfulness, but what can be said of Hufflepuff? Our esteemed colleague there has not taken seriously the suggestion that her own House can be corrupted." He shook his head. "And then, of course, there is the fact that none of us, not even I, can possibly see or hear everything."

"Severus has an advantage over the other Heads of House," Meli observed. "At least a number of his students either know or suspect him to be a Death Eater, which means that he has more access to information." She smiled ruefully. "But no one could be so off as to think that either Professor Sprout or Professor Flitwick might be a Death Eater."

Dumbledore nodded. "In the end, the faculty can only see so much," he said, "and we all know how adept students can be at _not_ confiding in their teachers or Heads of House. We need to have information that we simply cannot obtain in our present roles."

Meli arched an eyebrow. "Do mine ears deceive me, or do I hear you saying that you need a student to infiltrate?"

"Your ears are perfectly truthful," Snape replied dryly. "The students themselves see more than they understand, but the only way in which it could be passed on is through gossip."

"Which, I'm sure you'll agree, is not something students tend to pass on to teachers," McGonagall added in a similar tone.

"Very true," Meli said. "I assume you'll be wanting a transfer student who doesn't stay very long? I can't very well attend classes _and_ be Rasa at the same time."

McGonagall all but panicked at the suggestion and sent a trepidant look Dumbledore's way. Given that students who didn't stay tended not to stay on account of disciplinary problems—and given what a handful Meli had been as a student while still managing to avoid suspension or expulsion—Meli thought that her alarm was probably justified. _Oh, just think of all the havoc I could wreak! _she crowed inwardly, her mind already whirling with ideas.

"A visiting student will suffice," Dumbledore told her. "Preferably one who will obviously not integrate well into the system"—he offered McGonagall a reassuring smile—"for medical reasons."

Meli smirked. "Medical reasons," she echoed. "Right. How long, then?"

"Visiting students who won't integrate well generally don't last more than one or two days," Snape answered sardonically.

"Plenty of time," Meli assured them.

Plenty of time for what, exactly, she neglected to say.

xxx

It was silly to consider posing as a visiting student from one of the other European schools, and Meli had no intention of trying. The students at Hogwarts had met a large delegation from each of those schools, and it was possible, even if unlikely, that some communication between pen pals might result in her being exposed. Also standing in her way were a lack of cultural knowledge from each setting and, of most immediate concern, her ignorance of both German and French. The only place other than Great Britain in which she had lived long enough to pick up the finer points of culture, dialect, and stereotype was America, and it was from that culture that she ended up drawing when she created her visiting student's identity.

So it was that Alicia Ruíz, a prospective transfer student from Tres Brujas High School in California, materialized.

America had a large enough magical community that there were three schools of magic, each larger than Hogwarts, in that country. Of the three, Ariel Academy on the East Coast was the only one bearing any close resemblance to Hogwarts. Prospero in the Midwest and Tres Brujas on the West Coast had each split into junior and senior high schools, did not have a process for Sorting into Houses, and were a great deal more influenced by the nearby Muggle cultures than either Ariel or Hogwarts was. Students at Prospero were allowed to go home on weekends for Cornhusker games, while students at Tres Brujas were forbidden to wear sports logos.

Inter-school rivalries were steep, and a number of stereotypes flew between. The students at Tres Brujas considered Ariel to be a den of uppity preppies; the students at Ariel thought of Tres Brujas as one step removed from a complete ghetto; students at both of these institutions told Prospero jokes as American Muggles told redneck jokes. An objective evaluator, however, would discover with little effort that each school provided an excellent education in all things magical—though it could not be denied that each school had a distinctive personality, nor that the students each attracted and produced invariably reflected that.

Thus, Meli made good use of her time spent observing American Muggle behavior to adopt the attitude and personality of what an Ariel—and therefore a Hogwarts—student would consider to be the typical Tres Brujas sophomore. Alicia Ruíz really had very little basis in fact, per se, but the dignified students of Hogwarts had almost no way of knowing that, and Meli found it useful to be as obnoxious as possible—a goal that was readily served by taking full advantage of an existing stereotype.

Alicia stood five and a half feet tall and had beautiful tan skin, eyes the color of dark chocolate, and thick, black, waist-length hair. She wore dark brown lip liner (no visible lipstick), heavy white eyeliner, and baggy jeans that hugged her hips and swept the floor more efficiently than any broom. Above those jeans she sported a black bare-midriff shirt that said "Bad Girl" in red lettering, and an open robe with an Aztlan logo over the left breast and an airbrushed design of theatrical masks on the back. Above the masks, stylized silver lettering read "Smile Now"; beneath, similar lettering advised, "Cry Later". No one came close enough to see, but she also had a cubic zirconia belly-button ring for good measure.

In truth, Tres Brujas would probably not have let a person so clad on its grounds; contrary to East Coast rumor, it was a respectable school, and its students were, for the most part, respectable people. Respectability did not serve Meli's purposes, though, and stereotype, however inaccurate, did.

xxx

As some sort of cosmic joke, Alicia was assigned to follow Ginny Weasley to her various different classes. Meli was amused; Ginny was so dismayed that she couldn't even think to panic—and that was _before_ Alicia opened her mouth.

"Hey, Jeanie!" Alicia said, far too exuberantly. "How's it going?"

Ginny politely corrected her pronunciation, then, though she looked ready to throw up, said she'd never been better.

"That's great!" Alicia continued. "You're looking good, too, let me tell you."

Ginny managed a weak smile, then reluctantly led the way to Transfiguration.

xxx

Alicia succeeded in being obnoxious enough to—had she been a Hogwarts student—earn several detentions and to put her House (whatever unfortunate House that might be) several thousand points in the red. She loudly accused Professor McGonagall of deliberately speaking with a made-up accent, just to make it harder for a Mexican to understand the lecture. She publicly and often referred to Professor Flitwick as El Camarone ("the shrimp"), then managed to knock over the stack of books on which he stood with a charm thrown from fifty feet away; only she was amused. Professor Sprout actually had Alicia ejected from the greenhouse when she pulled out a Bic lighter and flicked it over a tray of gillyweed to see if it would burn (it did). Her crowning achievement, however, was in Potions, and in truth, it might not have happened at all if not for the very gossip-mongers she was there to pump for information.

As loud and disruptive as Alicia was, something about her attracted the local gossips, who, by some sick twist, saw in her a kindred spirit. This had, of course, been Meli's plan, but even she was thoroughly unprepared for the juicy bits they tossed her way.

After Herbology, Ginny led Alicia to the Great Hall, then promptly ditched her to go sit with Harry, Hermione, and Ron. Alicia rolled her eyes, uttered an irritated "Psssh!", and sat down to eat, at which juncture she was joined by Almyra Natterbek and Chickadee Chisholm, two of the most infuriating people Meli had had the misfortune to teach the previous year. As Alicia, however, she greeted them loudly and initiated what she hoped was a suitably trifling conversation.

Ten minutes in (after learning considerably more about Draco Malfoy's love life than she had ever wanted to know), Meli hit pay dirt. Almyra and Chickadee transitioned into twenty minutes of information on various student activities (most notably in, of all places, Hufflepuff and Gryffindor) that gave her some indication of who Voldemort was probably courting outside of Slytherin House. The clues were subtle but helpful, and she kept them coming by asking questions and throwing in a few (flamboyant) encouraging gestures and facial expressions.

After those extremely helpful twenty minutes had passed, though, Chickadee took the conversation to a new, disturbing level from which Meli could find no graceful escape.

"Now if you want the really _juicy_ rumors," Chickadee said, with a smile that made Meli want to cringe, "you turn to the teachers."

Almyra chuckled knowingly. "_Oh_, yes," she agreed.

Alicia raised her eyebrows. "You mean those boring old drips are getting together?" she asked skeptically. "Psssh, whatever!"

"Oh, no," Chickadee admonished. "They really are."

"Oh, like who?" Alicia pursed her lips. _I really don't want to hear this…_

Almyra giggled. "Professor Snape and Zarekael," she replied, clearly savoring every syllable.

__

Oh, my dear sweet heaven, you people are **SICK!** Alicia merely looked thoughtful. "I don't know them," she said. "Which one's the girl?" _Here it comes…_

Chickadee and Almyra dissolved into giggles. "Neither!" the former gasped.

Alicia's jaw dropped, allowing a wad of chewing gum to fall free. "No_ way_!" she all but shouted, attracting stares from throughout the Hall. "You gotta be kidding me!"

Almyra shook her head. "And that's not the half of it," she managed. "Snape is Zarekael's _father_!"

"Aw, that's just not right!" Alicia retrieved her gum and shoved it decisively back in her mouth. "Somebody oughta tell 'em to stick to women—_away_ from the family!"

"Weell…" Chickadee drawled, taking a deep breath to quell the last of her giggles. "Funny you should mention that."

__

Oh, what's next—don't tell me Severus is having a steamy affair with Minerva on the side. Alicia leaned forward, anticipatory. "Yeah?"

The gruesome twosome exchanged glances, and Meli felt suddenly very trepidant. Almyra leaned in to whisper the latest scoop.

"Word is they swore off women over the summer."

__

Oh, no._ You are _not_ going there!_ "Why?" Alicia whispered back.

Now Chickadee leaned in. "They had a girlfriend," she confided. "All three of 'em would get together every weekend last year…but she died."

__

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEW! Beneath the appearance charm that was Alicia Ruíz, Meli was screaming and greatly desirous of beating her head—or Chickadee's or Almyra's—against the nearest wall. She had a role to play, though, so with a draining, costly effort, she forced Alicia to look sympathetic rather than nastily vengeful. "Oh, how sad!" she cooed. "The poor guys! Who was she?" _And if you say—_

"Professor Ebony," Almyra said sadly. "She was our Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher."

Meli couldn't decide if she'd rather vomit or laugh hysterically; even Alicia looked a little green, though she managed somehow to look interested, as well. "And…all three of them…together?"

The local gossips nodded solemnly.

__

Someday, somehow, I am going to reach beyond the grave and get you two—and there will be much pain and maniacal laughter involved. "Wow," Alicia uttered at last. "And I thought the teachers here were _boring_!" _The things people come up with when they're too vapid to accept that appearances aren't usually deceiving. **Hasn't anyone here heard of Occam's razor, dammit!**_

Shortly afterward, Ginny reluctantly returned to rescue her disguised charge from her vomitous associates.

"Where to next?" Alicia asked.

Ginny sighed, evidently contemplating the cruelty of the universe. "Potions," she replied. "With Professor Snape."

Behind Alicia, Almyra and Chickadee dissolved once more into giggles.

xxx

As it happened, Ginny and her cauldron partner shared a table with Chickadee and Almyra. Ginny pointedly placed an extra stool between hers and Chickadee's, then just as pointedly turned her back on Alicia. Meli was quite happy with the arrangement, and when she saw the daily potion, to say that she was overjoyed would be an understatement. It was the very potion that she and the Skulkers had tampered with as fifth years in order to bring forth fireworks from Anthony Flint's cauldron.

She resisted the urge to grin wickedly. As Rasa, she was a virtual walking pharmacy; she had to be. There was always the very real possibility that her charges would come to her wounded or poisoned, and she had to be equipped to treat, or at least to stabilize them. Because of that, she carried on her person more vials and pouches than Collum Fell had stowed in his satchel at the height of his Potions paranoia. She had, very literally, enough implements ready at hand to light up the entire night sky over Britain if she so chose.

__

Ah, sweet revenge, she thought, retrieving half a dozen pouches from the folds of her Aztlan robe. _Tell me, Severus: do you believe that history repeats itself?_ She grinned inwardly. _What is it you said that day? "Don't do that again"? Sorry, my friend, but you didn't make me _promise 

xxx

Snape had recognized Meli immediately, both because she was the only "visiting student" that day and because Ginny Weasley, as Meli had warned him, looked thoroughly disgusted with her. The thought of Ginny's revised expression should she discover Alicia's actual identity threatened to bring a smirk to the Potions master's face.

Chickadee Chisholm and Almyra Natterbek were, as usual, chattering in whispers as they heedlessly threw together their potions. At the other end of the worktable, Ginny and Verity True worked together in near-silence, pointedly ignoring the fifth student at their table. Alicia, sandwiched between Ginny and Chickadee, looked thoroughly bored. She leaned forward and slumped with her shoulders about four inches above the table, and her eyes had a glassed-over look that gave her the appearance of having just died in her chair. Snape, remembering the ease with which she had brewed potions even as a student, understood her ennui perfectly.

Or so he thought.

Events conspired to teach him that he did not remember quite accurately. He turned his attention elsewhere to monitor and criticize the other students' progress, and he neglected to sneak small peeks at the visiting student on the Gryffindor side of the room. Even had he checked, he later doubted that even he would have seen it coming.

Near the end of the class period, Chickadee _and_ Almyra's cauldrons both blew, spouting ten different colors of fireworks that illuminated the dungeon classroom as only a nuclear blast should have done. Alicia was one of the first to duck, but she thoughtfully tackled Ginny, as well. Chickadee and Almyra fell over in terror, taking the entire worktable with them.

__

She did it again, Snape thought wonderingly, even as he recovered from the shock and started shouting for order. Students cowered under their worktables while the last of the fireworks fizzled out, but it was Alicia who emerged first from cover.

"Oh, wow, that was so cool!" she declared, not the less obnoxious for the scene, then continued rapid-fire: "It's like being at home, like on the Fourth of July, which is the second most important holiday after Cinco de Mayo, when I go home to cruise with my cousin down Federal—"

"**_Silence!_**" Snape roared, and even Alicia did as he commanded. He strode very purposefully down the aisle to glare down at the two chatterboxes who were now climbing out from under the table they had toppled. "_What_ in the name of Merlin did the two of you _do_?" he demanded, knowing full well that even had they been responsible, they could not have given an accounting. When they merely gaped at him and shook their heads, he was obliged to give them something to gape about. "Fifty points from Gryffindor," he snapped, then, seeing Alicia arch an eyebrow, narrowed his eyes and added, "Each." Once the chorus of gasps died down, he continued, "And you will both serve detentions every night for the next fortnight."

"The next huh?" Alicia interrupted, drawing another round of gasps from all present.

Snape brought his burning eyes to bear on her, though it was all he could do not to laugh out loud. "The next _two weeks_, you insufferable American!" he enunciated.

"Hey, that's insufferable _Mexican_ to you, _viejo_," Alicia shot back. "I got pride, man. I got dignity. You best _respect_!"

__

Meli, you are far_ too good at this._ Snape looked from Alicia to Ginny. "Miss Weasley, you and your charming…_foreign…_ guest will remain after class."

Ginny nodded, but sighed feelingly. By some miracle, doubtless facilitated by Meli's martial arts reflexes, she and Verity had escaped injury when the table fell. The visitor's goal had not been to injure but to amuse. _And perhaps to punish,_ Snape reflected. He saw that the table had landed at an odd angle, with a distinct dusty footprint visible on its top surface where "Alicia" had probably kicked it away. The other two girls had fallen straight backward, and Snape wondered if Meli had even paid attention to them—the table had landed in a way that still threatened them with harm. _I would have considered a broken leg a lesson well-taught in any case,_ he thought darkly. _Even Flint wasn't nearly so careless._

xxx

The bell rang almost as soon as the worktable and stools were righted. Meli was genuinely sorry for inconveniencing Ginny, but Alicia looked to her guide with an unconcerned smile. Ginny glared sullenly at her, shouldered her satchel, and led the way to the front of the room, where Snape stood like a dark avenging angel.

__

Hm, Meli thought analytically. _There's a chance I went just a little too far._

"Miss Weasley," Snape began.

__

Nope; he'd have spoken to me first.

Ginny gulped. "Yes, sir?"

"Based upon what I saw of both your brew and Miss True's prior to the incident, your potions were passable," he told her. "However, should either of you wish to re-brew them under more… controlled…conditions, speak with me later."

Ginny was in complete shock. She swayed slightly, caught herself on the corner of Snape's desk, and nodded, clearly unable to speak.

"See?" Alicia said, cheerfully slapping the other girl on the back. "It's all good."

That, as Meli had known it would do, drew the Potions master's attention to her. "Miss Ruiz," he said slowly, his voice suddenly deadly.

Alicia sighed in exasperation. "No, no, no," she cut him off. "It's not ROO-iz. It's rrrrrroo-EES. Get it right!"

Ginny gulped again; Snape narrowed his eyes in malicious amusement. "Miss ROO-iz," he repeated. "Empty your pockets."

Meli kept a grin from Alicia's face. Instead, with an air of wounded dignity, she pulled from the pockets of both her robe and her jeans every single pouch and vial she carried on her. Never had she wished so fervently for a camera; Ginny Weasley's expression was beyond classic. It required a full five minutes to lay out her entire stock, and at the end of that time she stepped back, crossed her arms, and looked defiantly up at Snape.

He selected from the stock a dozen different items, then, holding up each one in turn, identified aloud the color and blast pattern of the fireworks it had produced.

"Oh, I see how it is," Alicia said defensively. "You're trying to pin it on me, huh? Sure, blame the Mexican—"

"You pinned it on yourself," Snape countered. "You appear to be a Potions genius in your own right."

Alicia puffed up at the praise. "Yeah, that's me." _And now you're going to go for the jugular—_

"I wonder," Snape continued smoothly, "if you'd be interested in an apprenticeship. My current apprentice should have moved on by the time you graduate; I'd be happy to take you on."

Before Meli could properly marvel at this altered tactic, she was distracted by a loud thud to her left. Both she and Snape turned to find that this series of non sequitors had proven too much for poor Ginny; she had fainted dead away.

The two who remained standing broke character just long enough to exchange smirks, then Alicia stooped and tossed Ginny—who was three inches taller—over her shoulder. "I'll take her to the nurse's office," she assured Snape. "She'll be okay, no problem."

"I hope you understand that I'll have to confiscate these items," Snape said dryly.

"Psssh." Alicia straightened easily. "Yeah, yeah, I know the drill. I get 'em back at summer break." She strode jauntily down the aisle and out of the room, then, as a final farewell on her way out the door, started whistling "For the Longest Time".

Snape, who was blessed with a free period before his next class, shook his head and started gathering up Meli's pharmacy as Zarekael entered the room from the corridor, a bemused look on his face.

"Do I want to know?" he asked dryly.

"I'm smiling now," Snape replied, deadpan. "Perhaps I'll cry later."

Zarekael nodded. "Ah."

xxx

Alicia's antics were actually quite tiring to keep up, and by day's end, Meli was thoroughly exhausted. Ginny had recovered enough by dinner time to duck under the Gryffindor table when she saw Alicia coming. Chickadee and Almyra, by contrast, had refused to come to dinner at all, perhaps for fear that their fellow Gryffindors would beat them down as payment for Snape's steep point dock. All was as it should be, but Meli was sick and tired of people. She embarrassed Seamus Finnigan by trying to flirt with him, nearly got her head taken off for trying to play with Hermione Granger's hair, showered Lavendar Brown and Parvati Patil with unwanted (to say nothing of tasteless) fashion advice, then called it a night.

Rather than retreating to either a dormitory or guest quarters, though, she made her way to Dumbledore's office to file a report.

To her chagrin, Snape was there. As long as she'd been Alicia Ruíz, it had been easy to behave normally (by Alicia's standards, anyway) around him. Now, however, she was Meli Ebony, and there was no role to run interference for her. The rumors she'd heard repeated at lunch were manifestly untrue, but they were also extremely embarrassing.

Once safely behind the closed door to Dumbledore's office, Meli had switched to an adult appearance charm, lengthened Alicia's shirt, and closed her robe. She then calmly reported to Dumbledore and, at his invitation to sit, collapsed into the nearest chair.

"Based on complaints I've received from the faculty," he said, his eyes twinkling, "I have a feeling that your life may be in danger if they ever discover that _you_ were their source of grief."

Meli groaned. "_I_ would have killed a student like that," she replied. "The only shenanigans I _don't_ somewhat regret are the ones in Herbology and Potions."

"Yes," Snape agreed. "You quite outdid yourself in Potions."

At the reminder of his presence, Meli swallowed. Snape, noticing this, raised an eyebrow. "Are you all right?" he asked. "You look rather…traumatized."

She sighed. "Something profoundly stupid happened today," she didn't quite answer.

Snape exchanged amused glances with Dumbledore. "You mean apart from pretty much everything Alicia rrrroo-EES did?" he countered dryly.

"Hm. Yes."

"It appears to have damaged you profoundly," Dumbledore observed.

"Gossip does that," she told him.

Snape suddenly came very close to smiling. "I believe I understand the problem, Headmaster," he assured Dumbledore. Then, addressing Meli, he asked, "Does this have to do with a rumor concerning Zarekael and me?"

Meli felt very ill. "Ahem. Yes." She smiled weakly. "And me, apparently."

Dumbledore looked a touch green, but Snape took it calmly enough. "Ah, you heard the two most popular versions," he said.

She furrowed her brow. "You know about them?"

Snape looked grimly amused. "The students have an unfortunate tendency to forget how sharp Zarekael's hearing is," he replied. "Moreover, they have a disturbing habit of looking for the most erroneous and sensational theories possible and repeating them as often as possible." He smirked. "Am I to assume, then, that the fireworks display in Potions was less a platform for a rapid-fire speech on Cinco de Mayo and more an attack motivated by overheard rumors?"

Meli nodded miserably. "Beastly gossips," she muttered. "I'd never before thought it possible to confuse celibate with bi."

"And I never thought it possible for gillyweed to burn," Dumbledore interjected quickly, if a bit loudly.

Meli looked blithely back at him. "_Anything_ will burn if you put enough lighter fluid on it," she told him philosophically. "Remind me to tell you sometime about Andrea's Tasty Kake experiments."

xxx

FURTHER AUTHOR'S NOTE: Once again, I am happy to respond to the reviews you all have left for me. 

Cinammon- Sorry to disappoint you with regard to the toilet, but I promise, Alfred will make up for it with his other escapades, and I don't think the other house elves will disappoint, either (Oh, yes, you will be seeing more of Mortimer and Lavinia, too). And, as you may already have noticed from this chapter, short chapters are actually an anomaly in this story, so be prepared for a lot of long ones starting from here. Thank you for your estimation of the accuracy of the canonical characters, as well—that's one of my bigger concerns when writing, and it's the area I tend to wonder about even after posting; it's good to know that Snarky and I have it more or less right!

Omaha Werewolf- Ooh, _enjoyable_ philosophy! Stay tuned for further adventures in Kantian ethics (which will become even more adventurous when they come into conflict with Calvinist ethics later on). Muchas gracias por el aplauso! As for Hyacinth…why, thank you for noticing! JKR set herself up; we just walked through the door she opened. But come on, when you name both canonical Evans sisters after flowers, it would be a crime not to play along. How could we _not_ go there? I do apologize for the root beer, though…

Eilidh Ceilidh- _sigh._ Dear Eilidh, I know you have an email address. I also happened to know that you were dealing with other things these past couple of months, and I figured you'd check ff.n when you could. I would like to point out, though, that I also have an email address; please express personal concerns to me via that medium in the future.  
Epiphany, being my favorite holiday, seemed like an appropriate time to start posting, especially since, as you'll recall (I know you read the bonus chapter before I pulled it), I promised to start posting "Dream" by Christmas. Epiphany is the Gentiles' Christmas, so I was able to keep my promise, post on my favorite holiday, and have a subtle pun, all at the same time (yes, I thought of Meli, too). And no, I haven't forgotten about Tinúviel. Don't worry—her time is coming, and fairly soon.

AE


	10. Alicia Strikes Again

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Sorry about the late posting on this one, my friends. I fully intended to post after church yesterday, but then I got stranded at my parents' house, courtesy of that lovely blizzard that whipped through (and passed on too soon for me to get the day off of work, dangit!), and of course I'd left my disk at home. Here it is, though, in all of its (and Alicia's) glory. Enjoy!  
AE 

Chapter 10: Alicia Strikes Again

While one day was doubtless more than enough time for Alicia to leave an impression on the faculty, it was not enough time for Meli to ferret out all of the leads she knew must be out there. She resigned herself, therefore, to another day's existence as an obnoxious stereotype and prepared for a second round of shenanigans—a round, moreover, which would simultaneously ensure that she would be in no danger of being accepted as a transfer student.

Ginny's course schedule did not fit into her plans, however. Defense Against the Dark Arts would be all too easy to disrupt, but fouling up Arithmancy could be disastrous, and Care of Magical Creatures outright dangerous.

Thus it happened that Alicia Ruíz developed a particular affinity for Divination and Muggle Studies, both of which Chickadee Chisholm and Almyra Natterbek were taking. After a brief conference with McGonagall, Ginny received the happy news that she was to hand off Alicia to Chickadee at lunch time.

The Gryffindor gossips were thrilled to tears at being able to liberate their new American friend, and they cheerfully called out that they'd see her at lunch, m'kay? To which Alicia replied with a heartfelt grin that yes, yes she would.

Ginny was as relieved as Chickadee and Almyra were thrilled, but she still had to make it through Defense Against the Dark Arts—and so did everyone else, for that matter.

The only challenge facing Meli in that class would be in not tipping her hand and showing that she knew far more than she should do; after all, it was known, at least to adults, that the American schools did not have an equivalent class. Fortunately, she was quite capable of thinking outside of the box and, consequently, smuggled a chicken into the classroom.

The Hinkypunk-Chicken Wars were great material for sociological and zoological study, but because the violence had not spread to include other creatures (with the notable exception of the Battle of Bippleyburg, which had involved a community of pixies, a handful of house elves, and a misplaced llama), it generally received little more than a footnote in the average History of Magic text. That being the case, only gamekeepers like Hagrid, creature-conscious teachers like Lupin, the occasional odd Auror like Andrea, and the abnormally obnoxious hell-raising student like Alicia, would know of the vicious and deep-seeded antipathy still existing between the chickens and the hinkypunks. The Treaty of Upsy Downs had halted the outright carnage, but the wars hadn't really ended; they had just gone underground.

Meli had noted on passing the room during the summer that her replacement kept a caged hinkypunk to one side of his desk. It was a relatively simple matter—even for a fifth-year prospective exchange student—to loose a chicken in the middle of class and, under cover of its clucking, whisper a charm to loose the hinkypunk, as well.

The hinkypunk, naturally, was not long in emerging, but, most unfortunately, Lupin apprehended both creatures before anything truly interesting could happen. The chicken, which Lupin held firmly by the legs, clucked madly—breathing out unthinkable death threats, Meli didn't doubt. The re-caged hinkypunk, meanwhile, looked a tad more solid and turned a painful, burning shade of pink, all the time hissing with the agonized, furious sound of a cat that had mistakenly relieved itself in an electrical outlet.

Lupin calmly excused himself long enough to lock the chicken in his office, then returned to survey the class with his customary mild expression—though Meli caught a glimpse of a spark in his eye that was at odds with the rest of his countenance.

"Only one of you looks at all crestfallen at this outcome," the werewolf observed coolly, then rested his gaze fully on Alicia. "Would you mind telling us what you hoped to accomplish with that little stunt, Miss Ruíz?"

Alicia brightened. "Hey, you said my name right!"

"Indeed," Lupin replied. "A simple courtesy, but an important one. But regarding my question…?"

_If such a student ever did come here,_ Meli thought_, Remus Lupin would be the one to get through to her._ Outwardly she shrugged. "I just wanted to see what would happen," she mumbled, almost guiltily

Lupin smiled, and the spark in his eye revealed itself to be amusement; he might be trying not to laugh. "Well, you found a memorable way to learn," he allowed. "But there are other, less potentially violent, methods."

"But those are _boring_!" Alicia protested. "Come on, Mr. Lupin, you can't tell me you've never really wanted to! It's like—" She floundered around for the right words. "It's like opening the clothes washer in the middle of the spin cycle—you just wanna see for yourself, you know?"

Lupin's eyebrows were nearly at his hairline. "I suppose I do know," he conceded. "But there are more appropriate times and places for such experimentation." And with that mild reproof, he returned to the lecture.

Meli judged that it would be appropriate for Alicia to be uncharacteristically quiet for the duration of the lecture. The lunch time influence of Chickadee and Almyra would provide ample time to revive Alicia's standard nature.

Before lunch, though, she had to endure twenty minutes of being stared at by Ginny. At last, when the bell rang, she looked at the redhead in irritation. "**_What!"_**

Ginny shook her head. "I just never thought someone so absolutely annoying could be so cool," she marveled.

Alicia was taken aback. "Hey, I don't think he's annoying," she said defensively. "He's just plain cool!"

Now it was Ginny's turn to look irritated. "I wasn't talking about Lupin," she grumbled, then sighed long-sufferingly and left for lunch.

Alicia shrugged in her wake, then turned and walked up to the front of the classroom. Lupin looked up at her approach and tilted his head inquiringly.

"I was just wondering if I could have my chicken back," Alicia said, wincing as Meli's wand started to crawl up her sleeve and away from the werewolf.

Lupin regarded her thoughtfully, observing first her face then her sleeve, then smiled slightly. "I think it would be best if I keep it for now," he replied. "You may collect it when next we meet, which, unless I'm mistaken, will be in short _order_?"

"Sorry," Meli said, "what?"

"It's quite understandable that you're drawing a _blank_," Lupin answered. "Good day, Miss Ruíz."

Alicia flashed him a knowing grin, then departed therewith.

_Bloody wand,_ she sighed inwardly_. A dead giveaway, at least to a certain perceptive werewolf of my acquaintance._

xxx

Lunch time provided more useful information, and Meli was relieved that her name didn't enter the conversation once. By the time she arrived at the Muggle Studies classroom, Alicia was fully restored in all her glory, and Meli spent a wonderful hour wreaking havoc. Professor Bland brought in a hair dryer, curling iron, and heat comb for an in-class demonstration on Muggle hair-styling methods, and Alicia had a field day.

By the end of class, several students were experimenting with charms to make themselves look a little less like the Bride of Frankenstein, and Bland was nursing burns from the heat comb. As Alicia had been quick to point out, those particular injuries were _not_ her fault. The teacher had, in fact, sustained them as a result of being slammed into by a student, who tripped over a chair while dodging another student, who was ducking out of the way of a third student, who was trying to escape the flying industrial-strength hairdryer set loose by the visiting student.

Bland was not amused.

Trelawney, who alone of the faculty knew little or nothing about the now-infamous Alicia Ruíz, also ended the afternoon in a highly unamused state, and it was all thanks to David Bowie.

Alicia made a fine show of being awed at the sight of a "real, live crystal ball", then made an off-hand comment that they looked smaller in the movies. Chickadee, who, as Meli had learned, was intensely fascinated by Muggle cinema, wasted no time in asking Alicia to elaborate.

"Well, see, there's this movie called _Labyrinth_ that has David Bowie as the goblin king," Alicia explained, "and he _really_ needs to get some better pants because spandex shows way too much, if you get my drift, but he does this really cool thing with crystal balls."

And here she picked up Chickadee and Almyra's crystal ball and attempted a demonstration, which ended, predictably, with the crystal ball dropping and smashing on the floor, jolting a number of students awake. Trelawney whirled in alarm at the sound, but Alicia was oblivious.

"Oh, _man_!" she said in disgust. "I gotta try that again." Seizing another crystal ball from a nearby table, she made another attempt with the same result.

Mali thought afterward that she would have paid a premium to download someone's memory of that class into a Penseive so she could watch it again and again. In the guise of Alicia, she progressed steadily around the room, smashing crystal balls one after another, with a stricken, whimpering Trelawney following, begging her to stop and moving too slowly to stop her by force. The students, meanwhile, were laughing too hard to interpose.

When the only crystal balls left in the room were a handful or so on a storage shelf, Alicia at last stopped and turned, utterly dejected, to Chickadee and Almyra. "I guess I can't show you, then," she sighed sadly. "You're just gonna have to rent the video."

Trelawney at last reached her and, grabbing her by the shoulders, shook her forcefully enough to nearly knock teeth out of her head.

_**"WHY?"**_ the Divination teacher screamed. _**"HOW COULD YOU DO SUCH A THING!"**_

Alicia blinked in innocent confusion, then looked at the trail of glass shards she'd left. "Well, they're not sup_posed_ to do that, right?" she asked. "I mean, you _kept_ the warranty, didn't you? Pyrex is supposed to be a little tougher—"

"These are not Pyrex balls, you insolent little minx!" Trelawney wailed. "They're _crystal_, and the price of replacing them is above what I'd make in a lifetime!"

Meli knew a little better than that, having carefully calculated the replacement cost for which she'd be responsible before running up the bill in the first place. Nevertheless, confronted with a near-hysterical Trelawney, she was forced to admit that she might have overstepped, and accusing the teacher of engaging in hyperbole was unlikely to improve her situation much.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly, but apparently that was still the wrong response.

"_Sorry_?" Trelawney shrieked. **_"SORRY!"_** She angrily shoved Alicia away from her…to slam solidly into the storage shelf holding the very last intact crystal balls in the castle.

Meli attempted to minimize the impact, but she failed miserably, and the shelf came crashing down.

The room was deadly silent in the wake of the crash, and then a blood-chilling howl emerged from the Divination teacher. Meli needed only a glance to gauge the wild, desperate, and not-entirely-sane fire in Trelawney's eyes.

"Oh, **_shit_**!" Alicia gasped, then dove headfirst through the trapdoor just seconds ahead of a thoroughly murderous Trelawney.

xxx

Once Meli was out of sight, she ducked into an empty room, changed her _glamourie_, and hit herself with the most powerful Disillusioning charm she knew. She waited until she heard the raging bull that was Sibyl Trelawney charge by, gave it another ten minutes, and then slowly exited the room and made her way directly to Dumbledore's office.

She had a vague idea that it would require at least an hour for the distraught teacher to calm down enough to think of going to the headmaster, and she wanted to be long gone by then. Dumbledore, not surprisingly, was waiting for her when she removed the Disillusionment and knocked at his door.

"Jenny Wren, is it?" he asked calmly as she entered the room. "Or should I say, Fanny Cleaver?"

"Nancy Sikes," Meli answered miserably. "I've made a few too many poor choices, and while I wish I were redeemable, I'm well aware that I'm not." She looked meekly up at the headmaster. "I have a confession to make."

Dumbledore nodded. "Only one?"

"Well, three, actually," she amended. "The first is that what I did was premeditated and I have the charge slip to prove it. The second is that I, um…personally smashed three-quarters of Sibyl's crystal balls and indirectly facilitated the destruction of the rest. And thirdly, I underestimated—catastrophically—the full effect that such behavior would have on her, so…" She swallowed. "Well, sir, I'm afraid Sibyl has gone completely mad."

"I see," Dumbledore said, still quite calmly. "I assume that the charge slip aforementioned indicates that you've made arrangement for the replacement of the crystal balls?"

Meli nodded. "I ordered them shipped overnight," she answered. "They should be here by ten tomorrow morning." She offered a sheepish half-smile. "And I made sure to buy the ones that are equipped with the latest anti-breakage charms."

"Made of Pyrex, are they?" Dumbledore remarked sardonically.

She shrugged. "Something of the sort," she allowed. "But in the hands of someone actually possessing the Sight, these particular ones also happen to be tools, not the decorations Sibyl had. Call it my donation to the school ten years after graduation. I just…led up to it a little differently."

Dumbledore glanced in the direction of the door, then said, quite casually, "You may wish to become Alicia again. Unless I'm much mistaken, Sibyl is on her way up."

Meli swallowed but complied, having just enough time to smooth a wrinkle out of her Homies T-shirt before Trelawney nearly put a fist through the door. Dumbledore grimly called for the Divination teacher to enter, which she did with all of the grace of a Level Five hurricane. She stopped short on finding the newest bane of her existence standing with head bowed under the dark gaze of a (seemingly) extremely annoyed headmaster.

"Ah, Sibyl," Dumbledore said. "I was just about to send for you. Miss Ruíz and I have been having a little chat on the topic of crystal balls."

"And?" Trelawney demanded.

Dumbledore inclined his head and looked expectantly at Alicia. "_And_, Miss Ruíz?" he prompted.

Alicia looked mournfully at Trelawney. "And I'm sorry I broke your crystal balls and acted like a punk-ass bitch," she told the teacher.

Dumbledore looked a bit pained at her phrasing, but he chose not to address it just then. "And what else, Miss Ruíz?"

"And I called my Uncle Tito, who knows a guy," Alicia continued, "and I have to pay my uncle all my allowance for the rest of my life, but he's gonna make sure you get some new crystal balls by lunch time tomorrow." She glanced at Dumbledore, then looked back to Trelawney. "And they're new like out of the factory new, not secondhand or nothing. And since I'm paying him back anyway, Uncle Tito said to make sure and tell you he's sending the best ones out there—even better than the ones they use on the Psychic Friends Hotline."

It was amazing and somewhat comical to see how the news transformed Trelawney. All of the rage dissipated during the course of Alicia's speech, and by the end of it, the batty teacher was drowning in tears of joy. She came within an inch of actually hugging Alicia, then thought better of it; they weren't exactly friends, after all.

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Miss Ruíz, please report back to me for detention this evening after dinner," he said. "And until dinner, you will remain in the library, under the watchful eye of Madame Pince."

"But I'm not a student here!" Alicia protested. "You can't give me detention!"

"I can, however, ask rather forcefully that you clean up the mess you made," Dumbledore countered, his eyes twinkling evilly. "You _did_, after all, choose to make the mess in the first place." He glanced at the clock, then looked back to Alicia. "Madame Pince will be expecting you in five minutes," he added, and Meli had the sudden realization that he was entirely serious.

_Busted,_ she thought as she left the office and hurried to the library_. And I'd be willing to bet that the cleanup tonight will be all elbow-grease, no magic allowed._

She grinned. _Dumbledore had better watch it. I might start raising hell more often if he keeps rewarding my behavior._

xxx

Unfortunately for a number of people, Alicia's banishment to the library did not ensure her silence. Madame Pince was well-aware that the girl's presence was a punishment, but she was not an intrinsically harsh person, so when Alicia asked a handful of questions, the librarian was happy to answer them—though, for the sake of principle, she kept the answers brief and did not deliver them in the warmest of tones.

That was how Alicia came to be made aware that some books were locked away in the Restricted section and were not available for all to read. Already over-sensitive after her conference with Dumbledore and Trelawney (or so Madame Pince reasoned, anyway), the girl took far more offense than she might otherwise have done, and the next thing everyone in the library knew, Alicia was protesting loudly to Madame Pince about the wrongness of it all.

By the time another teacher arrived on-scene, Alicia had conjured a wooden box to stand on so that she could look Madame Pince (a somewhat tall woman) directly in the eye. The newly-arrived teacher did not understand the significance of the word "Ivory", which was stenciled on the side of the box, but he did know the meaning of most of the gibberish she was spouting, which was far more than the shell-shocked Hogwarts students could say.

Standing on the box, Alicia was about six feet tall, but this teacher was taller. He waited for her to finish a particularly convoluted sentence, then stepped behind her and placed a heavy hand on her shoulder.

Whatever Alicia's norm might be, _Meli_ neither liked nor was used to being touched, especially by someone standing outside her field of vision. She whipped around, her fist preceding her and, fortunately for the teacher's manhood, quickly checked by a skillful block.

Zarekael offered her a sardonic smirk and clicked his tongue in admonition as students throughout the library gasped in reaction to the sight of someone daring to lash out at him. Alicia, for her part, took in his height and the fact that he must be a teacher and stared at him in evident awe.

"You missed," he said mildly. "And I _wouldn't_ recommend trying that again."

Once her eyes had gone fully wide and her face a deathly pale, Zarekael cleared his throat and addressed her earlier words. "You _are_ aware, of course, that we're in Great Britain, and that in Great Britain the American Constitution and its First Amendment are not law?" he remarked, arching an eyebrow.

"Then what's so _great_ about it?" Alicia shot back.

"You might be interested to know," Madame Pince added faintly, "that even in America, certain books are banned or restricted."

Alicia whirled to face her again. "What?" she demanded. "No way!"

"_The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn_," the librarian told her, "because some people consider it racist. _The Catcher in the Rye_ because it's believed to have influenced political assassins. _The Dark Is Rising_ has been banned from some religious schools because it contains…hm…magic."

"In _America_!"

Madame Pince nodded. "I'm afraid so."

Alicia looked back and forth between the librarian and the Potions apprentice, then shook her head. She was silent a long moment, pondering her toes, then looked up, her eyes flashing. "That's it!" she declared. "I'm going back to Mexico!"

"You came from Mexico?" Zarekael inquired curiously.

Alicia rolled her eyes. "Okay, so my _grandparents_ did," she amended. "But it looks like England and America are out!"

"You'll be disillusioned no matter where you go," Madame Pince told her, sounding almost anxious. "No place is perfect."

"I don't want perfect," Alicia fumed. "I just want _right_." So saying, she jumped down from the box and evanesced it, then stormed over to an empty study table. She sat there, glaring at its wooden top, until it was time for her detention, and while the clean Divination loft showed that she had been there, she herself was never seen by the students again.

xxx

**FURTHER AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Profuse thanks to my beta-reader Bet for helping me think up ways for Alicia to wreak absolute mayhem. The crystal ball sequence would not have existed without you, chica; much thanks and gratitude! Also thanks to Snarky, who came up with the idea of Alicia's rant on the First Amendment.

And yes, in case anyone was wondering, I have issues with censorship.

Cinammon- We, too, made up rumors about our teachers in high school, but they weren't as bad as the ones Meli overheard, either. In fact, they were all rather silly, like the rumor that our concert band mis-director fancied himself to be Batman or that the World History teacher was in witness protection because he knew too much about the nefarious world-domination plot of extraterrestrial Fuzzy Dice (oh, wait—he made that up himself; never mind). There wasn't any fixing-up going on, though, largely because we wouldn't wish any of the teachers on any of our friends.  
Oh, and I hope the Hinkypunk-Chicken Wars didn't cause another Dumbledore's-toesocks worry; it's just a case of me over-compensating for what's soon to come.

Eilidh Ceilidh- Given your Aztlan T-shirt horror story, I'm not surprised you know someone like Alicia. I'm glad you like her, though, at least in fiction. Sorry I couldn't help you out with the skrewt explosion, but you could always go back to "Unholy Smoke" in the prequel and relive the glory.

AE


	11. Trial By Error

****

Chapter 11: Trial by Error

Partly as penance and partly in fun, Meli went to the next Order meeting as Alicia. Since Rasa was the only Order member to use appearance charms and the one metamorphmagus on their roster had a day job, the teachers present knew her immediately, and everyone else saw quite the variety of reactions to Alicia's entrance. Sprout turned a very unattractive shade of purple and had to sit on her hands, probably to keep herself from beating Rasa senseless; McGonagall, by contrast, smiled thinly and looked only slightly disapproving—she had trouble condemning someone who had so thoroughly wrong-footed Trelawney. Flitwick looked torn for a moment or so, then let out a low chuckle, and Lupin, who already knew, merely nodded in greeting and smiled mildly.

"So you must be the one everyone keeps mistaking for me," someone near at-hand commented, and Meli turned to find a young woman with impish features and short lavendar hair smiling at her. "Call me Tonks."

"Rasa," Meli replied, shaking hands. "How do they keep mistaking me for you?"

Tonks shrugged. "Other way 'round, actually," she amended. "Word's out in the Order that I'm a metamorphmagus, but there are still people who don't know there's a _glamourie _expert on the loose. I hear Sibyl Trelawney's got a Wanted poster with my name on it hanging in her classroom." She smirked. "Whatever you did to earn that, I hope it was a humdinger."

Her last remark was greeted by a chorus of snickers from several of the teachers assembled, in the midst of which Dumbledore's voice could be heard calling the meeting to order.

It was a rather long meeting, for there were a number of detailed reports due in the wake of Azkaban's fall; Rasa wasn't the only one who had been out spying. Since the attack on the prison and the Dementors' escape, Voldemort's eerie silence had ended. Death Eater activity had been ramped up nearly to the level at which it had been at the end of the Dark Lord's last Rise, and the Ministry, which had taken heavy losses at Azkaban, was responding sluggishly; the blitzkrieg had begun.

The meeting was at last beginning to wind down when a coded rap at the door brought it immediately to a halt. Basil Holmes, who had been on duty at the Ministry and had not, therefore, been supposed to come to the meeting, stepped hastily in as soon as the door was opened to admit him. Rather than making a blanket announcement, though, he hurried to Dumbledore's side and whispered a rather lengthy message in the headmaster's ear. Dumbledore heard him out, then, his poker face betraying nothing at all, nodded, thanked Holmes, and motioned for the meeting to resume. Holmes, meanwhile, made a discreet exit.

The Order finished its business in another ten minutes' time, at the end of which Dumbledore stood. "Unless you hear otherwise," he said calmly, "we meet again next Tuesday. Rasa, Daryl, and Rosemary, I need to speak with you for a few minutes. The rest of you have a pleasant evening."

While Meli appreciated the sentiment behind that last statement, she thought it was a bit like telling an atheist to go with God. There wasn't a person in the room who didn't have a death sentence hanging over them if Voldemort caught them, and the certainty of a prison sentence if the Ministry caught them instead. One side considered them mortal enemies; the other, insurgents and vigilantes. With that knowledge always in the back of their minds, pleasantness wasn't generally an accepted fact of life.

Shaking her head, Meli walked over to Dumbledore as the room emptied out. Daryl and Rosemary Llewellyn, who were actually social people, were a little longer in joining them, and when it became clear that Dumbledore wasn't going to say anything until they were all assembled, Meli made good use of the time to change appearance charms. Whatever was going on, she gathered that Alicia was probably not suited to handle it.

The Llewellyns at last arrived, looking quite unconcerned, and Meli felt the distinct urge to grind her teeth. They were around her age, intelligent, and way too bloody cocky for her taste. They were of use to the Order in the generic sense that they added to its numbers, but, though both were Aurors, neither contributed much more to the cause than did the unreliable but well-intentioned Mundungus Fletcher.

In Meli's disgruntled opinion, the two of them wanted taking down a notch, and it would take a horrific tragedy to accomplish even that much.

Once the room had emptied of everyone else, Dumbledore's poker face crumbled, and the other three were confronted with his gravest countenance. "I hope you will forgive my not telling you at once," he said, his eyes fixed on the Llewellyns, "but I thought you would prefer to be the first to know and to have no audience."

Rosemary's smile slipped, and Meli's stomach tightened. _Oh, God,_ she thought. _I didn't _mean_ it!_

"Your house has been attacked," Dumbledore said slowly, watching the Llewellyns closely. "And burned."

The news sucked the air from both the Llewellyns' lungs, and Meli swayed slightly. She had heard Rosemary commenting to someone that she'd hired her cousin for the evening to baby-sit the little ones; the Llewellyns had children, and those children, as well as their cousin, had been at the house.

__

They used to have children, she corrected herself sorrowfully. _And they would have been small children—like Meli Golden._

She furrowed her brow and screwed her eyes shut as the image of her quasi-niece's terrified face entered her mind unbidden. It was a memory she would never have knowingly wished on anyone else, and yet she had practically done so mere moments before. What could be more horrific, after all, than having your children killed and burned by Death Eaters?

Outwardly, at least, she recovered quickly, if only because she must, and she soberly met Dumbledore's eye. There was work to be done, and it had to be set into motion immediately, but it was wrong, to say nothing of impossible, to rush grief.

The Llewellyns did, however, appear to be made of somewhat stronger stuff than she had assumed, for Daryl cleared his throat and looked now to her.

"You'll be Rasa, then," he said quietly. "We need to be disappeared."

Meli nodded slowly. "As quickly as possible," she affirmed. "I'm sorry for your loss and for the shortness of time at the moment."

Rosemary shook her head. "It can't be helped," she replied, tears streaming down her cheeks. She looked to her husband then and, with a single question, reestablished Meli's opinion of her: "Why would they do this to us?"

Meli closed her eyes to keep from rolling them and set her jaw. _Obviously because you're more important than any of us believed,_ she sniped silently. _Including you, apparently, which may be the first prescient thing I've heard from either you in the entirety of your pointless lives._

Once the urge to voice her opinion aloud had passed, she reopened her eyes and turned to Dumbledore. "I think it might be wise to continue our meeting in your office, Headmaster," she told him. "It's best to keep them out of sight until arrangements are made."

Dumbledore nodded, a flicker in his eyes telling her that he was well aware of her other thoughts in the matter. "I quite agree," he answered. "Daryl, Rosemary, will you accompany us?"

The Llewellyns complied without a peep of argument, and the four of them progressed through the school in the direction of the headmaster's office.

They were nearly to their destination when a quiet, though not light, tread reached Meli's ear. She, Dumbledore, and the Llewellyns halted and turned to find Snape approaching their group. He looked, she thought, a touch worried, but he gave no indication of what might be passing through his mind. Instead, he looked to Dumbledore.

"Headmaster, have you seen Zarekael?"

Some subtlety in his tone told Meli the full story, and she had no doubt that Dumbledore was likewise informed. The Potions apprentice had likely been involved in some way in the evening's events, and to Snape's knowledge, anyway, he had not yet come back.

__

Not good, she thought. _Very not good._

If Zarekael was still at large and chose a poor time to return, or if he had already returned and was waiting in the headmaster's office to give his report, it was possible that the Llewellyns would come face to face with a Death Eater. In that event, it was highly likely, especially in light of their sudden, horrific loss, that one or both of the Aurors would come unhinged and say or do something stupid, which would in turn lead to other, worse problems all around.

__

Now would be a great time for Murphy's Law to fall flat on its face, she reflected. _Please, God, just this once._

"Not lately," Dumbledore replied calmly. "He asked to speak with me after the meeting tonight, so it's possible that he's waiting in my office. We're going there now—will you join us?"

Snape hesitated briefly, ostensibly not wanting to intrude, but Meli saw clearly that he had gauged the situation as she had done. He nodded, however, perhaps concluding that he would be able to help if things got out of hand.

__

Please let him still be out, Meli prayed. _Reporting to Voldemort, delayed on the way home—hell, out drinking with Malfoy—_something_! Anything to keep him from being there now or dropping in before the Llewellyns are out of the way._

But, as had happened so often before, the chances of something happening in the way she wished it to happen were inversely proportional to the amount of fervency with which she wished it, and her first hint that that was the case came in the form of a song.

The five of them were still in the stairwell leading to the headmaster's office when a tune at once strange and familiar came faintly down to meet them. It was a long moment before she could place it, and when she did, it was far too late to do anything about it.

The singer this time was male, but it was the fey-sounding song Zarekael had played for her a year before—a song that only he would know, though why he would be singing it here and now, she had no way of guessing.

They had all heard it, but there was no going back. The headmaster had been filling Snape in on what had happened to the Llewellyns' home, and Zarekael's voice did nothing to hinder his narrative. He finished what he was saying, then turned to the bereaved parents as they came to the top of the stairs. "I'm sorry, Daryl and Rosemary," he said as he opened the door and ushered them inside. Meli followed them, knowing without seeing that Dumbledore and Snape were close behind.

The scene that opened up before them was no less odd for Meli than it was for the Llewellyns. There, near the center of the office, stood a man, seven feet tall, wearing Death Eater robes. Both his shoulder-length hair and his Mephistophelean beard were black, contrasting sharply with his pale skin, which contrasted further with disturbingly blue eyes. There was no hardness to his features, though, and to top the whole of the tableau, he held in his arms a child who looked to be about four or five, to whom he was singing in a peculiar, lyrical language.

Zarekael was indeed back, but he hadn't come alone.

__

This has to be one of the little ones, Meli thought, cold shock breaking through her surprised numbness. _Somehow he managed to save one, he brought him here, and he's…singing to him…to _comfort_ him._

Clear as it might be to her that such was the case, it was entirely lost on the child's parents. She saw both Daryl and Rosemary stiffen in what was unmistakably horror and fear, and before she, Snape, or Dumbledore could do anything, the worst of Meli's own fears of the moment became terrible reality.

Both parents drew their wands, and Daryl leveled a hateful glare at the Potions apprentice. "I'll kill you!" he snarled.

He would have leapt forward, intent on doing precisely that, had not Dumbledore caught him by the arm to prevent it. Meli, sensing that the best place for her to be was away from the two unhinged Aurors, sidestepped them and came fully into Zarekael's view. He, of course, had no idea who she was, but he showed some sign of recognition when she offered him a strained smile that she hoped looked encouraging.

"Calm yourself, Daryl," Dumbledore ordered. "All is not as it seems."

"Damn right, it's not!" Daryl snapped back. "That man was with the bastards who killed Jerrin and Amanda. He kidnapped Jerreth and is bewitching him as we speak!"

__

Jerrin and Jerreth, Meli thought in disgust. _How insipidly cute._ She had to admire Zarekael's fortitude, even as she worried about the direction things were headed; he, unlike the Llewellyns, had kept his composure and, without missing a beat, continued singing to the child. It was admirable, to be sure…but it did nothing to allay Daryl's irrational fear that the song was some sort of spellcraft.

Rosemary, meanwhile, was focused on another detail. "How did _he_ get into your office, Albus?" she demanded.

At the sound of his mother's voice, Jerreth, who had had his head buried in Zarekael's shoulder, looked up.

"Mummy!" he cried, innocent childish delight clashing sharply with the tension of the adults.

Only then did Zarekael stop singing, and he knelt to set Jerreth down. The child ran toward his mother, then paused, turned back briefly, and gave his rescuer a hug. "Tank you," he said sincerely, then turned again and crossed the distance between himself and his parents, leaving Zarekael to get shakily back to his feet.

"You see, Albus?" Daryl growled, misinterpreting this latest display, as well. "He _did_ bewitch him!" He made a futile attempt to push past Dumbledore to get at Zarekael, but the headmaster again restrained him.

"No, he did _not_, Daryl," Dumbledore countered, the first tinges of anger curling at the edges of his tone. "Just stop and listen." When the Auror gave him a quizzical, though hostile, look, he continued. "The song you heard was not a siren song. It was a lullaby about fairies and the magic of the night. Zarekael was only trying to calm him."

Rosemary shot a look at him. "Zarekael?" she asked sharply. "Severus Snape's son?"

"Indeed," Snape said coldly, stepping around Dumbledore. Meli started slightly, and she thought the Llewellyns might also have done, had they not been so focused on other issues; they had all forgotten about his presence in the group. Snape, for his part, ignored all of them and went directly to Zarekael, whom he began looking over for evidence of battle damage.

"As you can see," Dumbledore told the Llewellyns coolly, "this is far more complicated than you know. I trust him implicitly."

"_You_ may trust him," Rosemary hissed. "You may trust _both _of them, Albus, but _I_ don't!"

The two spies turned away, leaving Dumbledore and Meli to deal with the Llewellyns. The headmaster permitted the two of them to converse, and, in truth, he had little choice in the matter—the Aurors were restless.

"You don't understand the situation," Meli stated calmly, nearly shaking with the effort it took to keep her tone reasonable. "You've come to logical conclusions based on the information you have, but the simple fact here is that you don't have _all_ of the information."

"And why not?" Daryl demanded.

Jerreth, who had taken up residence in his mother's arms, let out a contented sigh, drawing all eyes to his now-sleeping form.

"I think we would be more comfortable if we sat down," Dumbledore said mildly.

Rosemary took the first steps in that direction and carefully deposited her son on a couch near the fireplace. Her husband was not appeased in the least, but he grudgingly followed, and somehow both of them were coaxed into sitting down in armchairs flanking the couch.

"I want to know why we weren't told about this," Daryl insisted stubbornly once he was seated.

__

Bloody Hufflepuffs, Meli raged inwardly_. You never understand when to just leave bloody well alone!_

"Nearly no one knows," Dumbledore told him patiently. "The fewer people who know about Zarekael, the safer he is to infiltrate Voldemort's ranks and sabotage his plans."

"Albus," Rosemary growled, "he's a rogue Death Eater at Hogwarts. I don't care if you trust him! He killed my son and my cousin. The Ministry must be alerted!"

"That would cause more damage than you know, Rosemary," Dumbledore countered quickly. "Neither Severus nor Zarekael can function efficiently—"

"At the very least, they need to know about him," Daryl interrupted coldly, "so that they may keep an eye on him, and they _especially_ need to know that Snape isn't being entirely forthcoming." He glared from Dumbledore to Snape, who, Meli now noticed, had turned to listen to the argument. "What other secrets does he carry?" he asked nastily, now staring squarely at the Potions master.

Meli saw Zarekael's hand move subtly, barely heard him murmur, "_Obliviate_," and swallowed hard when she saw both of the Llewellyns' faces suddenly go slack. The apprentice neither paused nor hesitated, but worked quickly to transfigure his Death Eater regalia into ordinary potions work robes. She saw a brief flicker of white and realized that he had hidden his mask somewhere in the folds of the altered garment.

Once finished, Zarekael looked apologetically to Dumbledore. "I'm afraid I don't have a decent cover story in mind, Headmaster," he said quietly.

Dumbledore nodded, looking profoundly disappointed…

At the sight of the headmaster's reaction, something seemed to crumble in Zarekael's features, but Meli couldn't be certain, for his face transformed immediately to marble. "I'm sorry, Headmaster," he said stiffly. "It was the only way to salvage the situation."

Those words, so plainly a defense, cut Meli to the heart as she realized what had just happened. Again Zarekael had acted without consulting Dumbledore; again his trustworthiness—his _rightness_—appeared to be in question.

__

Dumbledore just decimated that boy with a look, she thought, stricken. _And he probably has no clue that he did._

Dumbledore proved her suspicion correct by shaking his head regretfully and driving that wrong point further home. "I had hoped to resolve this without resorting to memory charms," he sighed.

Zarekael, his beliefs confirmed, locked eyes with the headmaster and went deathly silent.

"They were adamant, Albus," Snape bit out, giving Dumbledore an outright venomous look. "If Zarekael hadn't done it, I would have."

Meli swallowed again, then cleared her throat before further hostilities ensued. There were, after all, others present to be seen to. "You'd best hurry, Headmaster," she advised, glancing shrewdly at the teachers present. "They'll be coming out of it soon."

Dumbledore shook his head as if rousing himself from a nap, then went quickly to work planting a false memory of the events of the past hour in the Llewellyns' minds. Once the Aurors came out of their brief departure from reality, Meli re-introduced herself and led them away to the newly-established Hogwarts guest wing for disappeared personages.

Fortunately, the family were all exhausted, so it required little effort to have them drink some laced chamomile tea and send them to sleep. She paused just long enough before going to murmur a complicated charm over Jerreth, and then she took her leave and returned to Dumbledore's office.

Zarekael was still giving his report, and Meli would not have been surprised to learn that he hadn't moved a whit since she had left. He stood as stiffly as he had done before, and his eyes never left Dumbledore's face as he spoke in flat, dead, matter-of-fact tones.

She had missed entirely his account of the activities within the Llewellyns' house, and as she closed the door quietly behind her, he was giving a summary of the ending. Zarekael himself had torched the house, employing the green flames that were rapidly becoming his trademark, and a Death Eater named Cooper had sent up the Dark Mark. The raiding party were not due to report to Voldemort until a later date, so the Death Eaters had apparated to various different destinations, then returned home. Zarekael, however, had apparated directly into the children's bedroom and portkeyed out with Jerreth, leaving a rough simulacrum in the child's place.

Even when he had done and fell silent, Zarekael's eyes remained fixed on Dumbledore's face, as if he was looking for something. Meli had her own guess as to what that something might be, but since Dumbledore was clueless, the apprentice's search came up fruitless.

The headmaster nodded once, then set aside the Dicto-Quill and put the log away. Once he had finished these chores, he looked expectantly to Meli.

She cleared her throat. "They're all sleeping, courtesy of a judicious amount of Dreamless Sleep," she told him. "And I took the liberty of casting a memory charm on the little one. He remembers what happened tonight, but it's hidden in his mind as a suppressed memory. Even if it rises to his conscious mind, he won't be able to speak of it until it's safe to do so."

Dumbledore nodded again. "Thank you, Rasa," he sighed, the twinkle gone from his eye. "And you, too, Zarekael," he added, "though I truly wish tonight had turned out differently."

Meli winced openly at that remark, which she had no doubt was intended innocently, but which she knew would wound her friend even more deeply.

"So do I," Zarekael replied hollowly, then drew himself up further. "Am I dismissed, Headmaster?"

Dumbledore looked a touch startled at the sudden formality, but he still did not piece together what was actually happening. "Of course, Zarekael," he said. "Get some rest."

The Potions apprentice bowed deeply, turned on his heel, and left the room without another word, any sign of pause, or so much as a look at anyone else.

Brittle silence ensued for several minutes, until Zarekael was certainly out of earshot, and then Snape leaned forward, gripping the corner of his desk until his knuckles were white. "How _could_ you, Albus!" he demanded sharply, his tone perhaps two notches down from an all-out shout. "How could you do that to him?"

Dumbledore regarded him in outright amazement. "Do what?" he asked.

Meli felt her jaw fall open. _He really and truly has no bloody idea,_ she marveled, torn between horror and disbelief.

Snape also looked incredulous, but when it became excruciatingly clear that the headmaster was every bit as bewildered as he said, the Potions master smiled unpleasantly. "You have no idea, do you?" he growled. "You have no idea—no _concept_—of the power you have over people." He pointed forcefully at the door through which Zarekael had just departed. "You just _devastated_ that man, Albus."

Dumbledore's brow furrowed in concern, but he looked no less nonplused. "How did I do that, Severus?" he inquired.

Snape slammed a fist down on Dumbledore's desk, and with no memory of having moved at all, Meli found herself several steps back from where she had just stood. "Damn it!" he spat. "You can destroy Zarekael with a single glance, Albus! The disappointment in your eyes and voice—"

"I was disappointed with the entire situation, not with him!" Dumbledore protested. "_He_ was splendid, doing far more than anyone could expect."

"Unfortunately, that isn't how he perceived it," Snape countered sadly. "You can do no wrong, Albus, because to Zarekael, you are a god." He pushed away from the desk. "He has worked tirelessly to regain your trust and approval, and now he believes he has failed you—_again._" He narrowed his eyes slightly. "What progress he had made was for naught."

"He earned my approval long ago, Severus," the headmaster objected, shaking his head adamantly. "Surely he could see that. As for me being a god, I am a man, Severus," he stated firmly. "I make mistakes—everyone knows that." When neither Snape nor Meli replied, he looked from one to the other, a grain of uncertainty surfacing at last. "Don't they?"

To judge by Snape's startled reaction, he had forgotten Meli's presence, but he quickly recovered and looked also to her.

__

Who died and named me diplomat, dammit! she railed irritably. She carefully cleared her throat, though, and shook her head regretfully. "I'm afraid not, Headmaster," she told him. "Most people see you as an omniscient, omnipotent wizard. You have a knack for showing up in exactly the right place at exactly the right time with the right thing to say." She offered him a rueful smile. "It's hard to see you as a fallible human being." I_ don't have that problem,_ she added silently, _but that's hardly the point at the moment._

Snape nodded his approbation, then returned his gaze to Dumbledore.

The headmaster looked stricken. "But he _adores_ you, Severus," he persisted weakly.

"_I_ have been placed on a pedestal, yes," the Potions master allowed, "but I am not a god. We are too much alike; I'm tainted. You are not. In a very real sense, you are a figure of light in a rapidly darkening life."

"And now the light has banished him to the darkness," Dumbledore realized aloud, his own features clouding over. He seemed not to see when Meli nodded slowly and Snape took a step backward, satisfied that he had finally been understood. "Oh, dear," the headmaster continued after a moment of painful silence. "What am I going to do about this?" His eyes at last focused again on Snape, who merely stared at him stonily. "He won't do anything—"

"Drastic?" Snape suggested, crossing his arms. "That depends on how you define 'drastic'. If you're asking if he might kill himself, then no. You have forbidden him that."

__

That was interesting…but not really very surprising, after a moment's thought. Zarekael's value to the Order would end if he died, either by another's hand or by his own. If only for purely Machiavellian reasons, Dumbledore would quite possibly have required of him an oath not to kill himself.

Another awkward silence fell over them, which was broken by Snape clearing his throat pointedly. "I'll leave you to your thoughts, Headmaster," he said coldly, then departed, Meli on his heels.

She hadn't particularly wanted to see the prior conversations, but she most certainly was _not_ going to stick around for their aftermath.


	12. The Picture and the Penseive

****

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This next section is more about Snape than about anyone else, partly because he's the coolest HP character ever and deserves his own section, and partly because in the grand scheme, this story as a whole is more about him than about anyone else. Here's your first taste.  
AE

****

Chapter 12: The Picture and the Penseive

PRESENT: LATE SEPTEMBER

While, admittedly, Meli's career as Rasa was still somewhat new, she had been at it long enough to have figured out typical responses from the people she sought to help. She had never yet encountered a person who hadn't had some idea of why Voldemort was targeting them, nor had she offered her assistance to anyone who had seen fit to delay for any reason that was not perfectly understandable: collecting or destroying documents and items that would be of disastrous use to Voldemort, snatching up a stuffed bear for a crying child, or recovering items that might help in their escape. Although her charges were often frightened, she had never found them completely insensible—until now.

Mr. Aldarion Everett had no clue why Rasa appeared on his doorstep at all, much less an hour before dinner, and he seemed quite unaware of the _existence_ of Voldemort, to say nothing of the possibility that he might pose a threat to the Dark Lord. This might have been reasonable had he been a Muggle, but Everett was a fully trained wizard from a well-known family. It required a great deal of time-wasting explanation even to get Meli past the door, and then she spent further precious minutes convincing him to leave and leave _now._ To his credit, Everett perked up and sped up once she succeeded in impressing upon him the urgency of the matter…but when she returned to the ground floor after rigging his boiler, she found that he had sped in rather a different direction than he ought to have done. She heard his voice floating down the stairs, and it sounded as though he was trying, quite unsuccessfully, to un-ward something.

She dashed up to the first floor and found him in front of what appeared to be an ordinary bedroom door. His Latin pronunciation and his jerky wand motions betrayed him as either frantic or nowhere near lucid.

Meli caught him by the elbow in mid-swish. "Mr. Everett, we have to go!"

He looked at her with a countenance of panic. "No, you don't understand!" he insisted. "There may be something in here that we don't want found!"

Looking at his eyes, Meli had the disturbing epiphany that he was lucid now for the first time since her arrival. Whatever madness had overtaken him before, he was in his right mind at the moment, and that right mind was in earnest. "What's behind this door?" she asked calmly.

"My sister's bedroom," he replied hurriedly. "She was a very powerful witch—she kept things—"

"Then why doesn't she un-ward it herself?" Meli interrupted irritably. She had been given to understand that Everett had no family.

"She's dead," he answered simply. "Warding this door is the last thing she did before she died."

__

That was very interesting. "Have you tried apparating or portkeying in?" she inquired.

He shook his head. "One doesn't usually think to apparate room-to-room in a house," he pointed out.

"Good point." Meli drew her wand, then, with no problem at all, apparated to the other side of the door.

Miss Everett had plainly died some time ago. Everything in the room was covered with a thick blanket of dust that nearly obscured all color. There was a great deal of what was probably forest green, and every furnishing that was not cherry wood was now-tarnished silver. She had probably not gone out intending to be gone long, for the room still looked half lived-in. The wardrobe door was slightly ajar, and a bureau drawer was half open; atop the vanity were several items that seemed to have been abandoned while their owner was still using them: a hairbrush, a hand mirror, a tube of (now melted) lipstick.

It was the bureau-top that drew Meli's attention most fixedly. This, too, bore items that, had Miss Everett returned, would immediately have been put away: a memorable white mask, a framed wizarding photograph, and a Penseive.

The white mask was self-explanatory; Meli didn't have to see the black robes tossed on the bed to determine Miss Everett's extracurricular activities. Of far more interest to her was the silver-framed picture that lay rather than stood beside the Penseive.

On clearing the dust from this, she found that the two moving figures were both Hogwarts students, both in Slytherin robes, neither smiling (though they didn't look unhappy). One was a girl, whom Meli judged to be about five feet, eight inches, with shoulder-length blonde hair and steely gray eyes; the other was well over six feet tall, with longish greasy black hair and glittering black eyes.

__

Severus and Tinúviel, she realized with a shock. She was standing in Tinúviel Everett's bedroom.

She had met Tinúviel only once, a very long time ago, and though she had never again seen the face, she knew that Tinúviel had seen her often enough, peering out at her from behind a white mask whenever the Inner Circle gathered. This had been the first Death Eater whose presence had not turned the back of Meli's neck cold.

Glancing at her watch, Meli swung immediately into action. Yes, Aldarion Everett's sister had been a powerful witch, and there was no sense in leaving anything behind from which Voldemort might benefit. She slipped the picture into her pocket, then cast shrinking and covering charms on the Penseive before putting it, too, in her pocket.

On a sudden impulse, she quickly opened and rifled through the bureau drawers. In the back of Tinúviel's sock drawer, she found a small box, about the right size for holding letters. This, too, she shrank and pocketed. She found nothing else of interest in the bureau or the wardrobe.

The mask and robes she left. If they survived the blaze, Voldemort's followers would find them before the Aurors did; if they didn't survive, all the better. Meli didn't know what she had stumbled onto, but it was something best kept off of the Ministry's radar—which meant also giving Voldemort no reason for suspicion. With that thought, she tossed a vial of one of Snape's incendiary potions at the vanity table, then apparated back out to the corridor as it exploded into violent flames.

Everett was still waiting anxiously when she reappeared.

"I heard you looking," he said quickly. "Did you find anything?"

"Nothing of consequence to You-Know-Who is in there," she answered. "Now come on. We should have been well away by now."

She pulled him down to the ground floor, then pointed her wand in the general direction of the boiler room. "Execute."

There was a deafening explosion that rocked the house, followed immediately after by the rushing sound of a ball of flame expanding rapidly outward. Everett was too shocked to react, so Meli caught him in a bear hug and disapparated.

ooo

Once Aldarion Everett was settled into his temporary quarters in a deserted wing of the castle, Meli returned to Dumbledore's office to file an official report of the evening's activities. The Dicto-Quill dutifully recorded everything she said without comment, but Dumbledore watched her carefully and seemed to recognize that she was leaving out more than unimportant details. Once her report was completed and the Dicto-Quill set aside, he eyed her and raised his eyebrows.

"Was there something further, Rasa?" he inquired.

Meli cleared her throat. "I wasn't sure if it should go into the record, sir," she admitted. "If you think it best, I'm perfectly willing to record an addendum, but I wanted to run it past you first."

"By all means," Dumbledore replied, and he listened attentively as she described Everett's detour and the room beyond the warded door.

"I still have the items I removed," she finished, drawing them out of her pockets and restoring the Penseive and the box to their proper sizes. The contents of the Penseive, once uncovered, swirled and shone in the light of Dumbledore's office; Tinúviel had placed several memories in it before being called away to her death. "I'm not sure whom to give them to, sir," she confessed. "To you, obviously…but Severus might have some sort of claim, as well."

She hardly knew why she thought so. Perhaps it was because Snape was a Death Eater, perhaps because Tinúviel had obviously been his friend, perhaps something else. What struck her most, though, was that Snape was not the sort to stand for a photograph at all, much less with another person—unless that person was very important to him.

Dumbledore's countenance was thoughtful as he considered the three items on his desk, then he nodded. "Yes," he murmured. "I believe Severus has the claim here." To Meli's puzzled look, he replied with an eye-twinkling smile, "You see, I have some idea already of what Vi kept in both the box and the Penseive, and while Severus may know about the box, he knows little, if anything, about the Penseive."

Meli eyed him narrowly. "Is this something he ought to have known about?" she asked, an edge to her voice.

The twinkles faded from Dumbledore's eyes. "Perhaps," he admitted. "But Vi thought it too dangerous for the matter to come to light. She had little concern for her own safety, except that it was tied up with Severus', and it is still possible that the knowledge would endanger him…except that enough time has passed that Voldemort no longer feels the need to resort to legilimency with Severus."

An odd idea formed in Meli's mind. "You mean there was a time when Voldemort did that regularly," she hazarded. "Not only with Severus but also with Tinúviel."

Dumbledore nodded.

"And Severus never knew she was a spy?"

The headmaster clasped his hands thoughtfully. "I believe he may have guessed," he allowed. "But he was never expressly told so."

"And did she know about Severus?"

He shook his head. "She probably guessed, as well, but she never asked, and I never told her."

Meli stared at him. "Because it was the safest possible arrangement?" she continued, making an effort to curb her sarcastic tone. Wasn't that what he had so lambasted Snape and Zarekael for, after all—suppression of important information? If he could lie by omission for the sake of others' safety, he had no moral authority with which to condemn those others for the same act.

Her sarcasm slipped through anyway, to judge by Dumbledore's expression. He took it calmly enough, though he did bow his head a bit. "I am not infallible, Meli," he told her. "My judgments are not always as wise as I could wish. In this case, however, it was not my judgment alone that kept one from knowing about the other. Each _asked_ that the other not be told, and each asked not to be told about the other."

Meli felt her brief flash of resentment die down. It was good to feel defensive in a friend's behalf, but she tended to forget sometimes that her friends were also shrewd, thinking adults. "I apologize, Headmaster," she said quietly. "Whether or not you know everything about the situation, I most certainly do not; that's something I have a tendency to forget from time to time—generally when it's most important to remember it."

"It's quite all right," Dumbledore assured her, a bit of his twinkle returning. "We are, none of us, infallible." He paused, then changed the subject. "Perhaps we should call Severus and hand over Vi's effects."

Two minutes later, Snape stepped out of the fireplace, fastidiously shaking ash from his robes as he did. He paused when he saw Meli, unsure if this was a stranger or Rasa in one of her many disguises.

"It's me, Severus," she assured him, with a tiny smirk. "I've just come from disappearing someone."

He narrowed his eyes in amusement, then turned to Dumbledore. "You asked me to come up, Headmaster?"

Dumbledore nodded, but before he could say anything, Snape's eyes came to rest on the desk and widened in shock. "Where did you get this?" he demanded, looking first to Dumbledore, then to Meli. He crossed to the desk in two strides and picked up the picture with suddenly trembling hands. Within the frame, his younger self gazed back at him and furrowed his brow.

Meli glanced at Dumbledore, who nodded fractionally, then she took a deep breath. "I was dispatched this evening to disappear Aldarion Everett before Voldemort did," she told him. "When he learned that I intended to blow up the house on the way out, he insisted on trying to recover anything from his sister's room that might survive the inferno and prove useful to Voldemort. She had warded the door…last time she left…so I had to apparate in." Snape's face had gone even paler than usual. "I checked through quickly, but these were the only things that seemed they could be of any value, to Voldemort or to anyone else." She pointed to the box and the Penseive. "As for the picture…" She shrugged lamely. "It seemed wrong for anyone but you to consign it to the flames."

Something in her last comment caused him to start and look at her narrowly, as if to see how much more she knew of the situation. He recovered, then turned his gaze back to the items still on Dumbledore's desk. "Tinúviel kept a Penseive?" he said hollowly.

Dumbledore nodded slowly. "Yes," he replied. "She never entered Voldemort's presence without first leaving certain memories behind—and some remained always in there. She confessed that she had not developed adequate enough skills as an occlumence to risk it."

Snape stared at him. "And how would you know about anything Tinúviel did as a Death Eater?" he asked.

The headmaster's countenance saddened. "I know because she reported to me, as you did," he replied.

"And I asked you not to tell me," Snape recalled numbly.

The two men seemed to have forgotten entirely about Meli; she felt like a sneaking eavesdropper, but she could think of no way to excuse herself without further invading.

Her conjecture was proven correct, however. Whatever the full story might be, Tinúviel Everett had been very important to Severus Snape.

It was a long moment before Snape spoke again. "And did you…ever tell her…about me?" he rasped. His mask was crumbling, and beneath it Meli saw the anguish of a man bereaved.

"She also asked me not to tell her," Dumbledore answered softly, a faint echo of grief touching his own voice and face. "But I believe she may have pieced together clues left lying before she made that request of me."

A small ray of hope brushed Snape's bared soul: at least there was a chance that she had not died believing him to be her enemy. Meli was glad for him, but it unnerved her to see the marble Potions master so affected. She had seen him angry, amused, nettled, frustrated—but never so clearly and deeply grieved.

Dumbledore permitted Snape another moment of silence, then rested a hand on the rim of the Penseive. "Based upon Meli's report and my memory, Vi was preparing to report to Voldemort when she died. Most of what you would wish to know is probably in the Penseive, and there may be more in this box."

At the mention of Meli's name, Snape looked up in surprise; he had indeed forgotten that she was there. She made no reaction, however, and he turned his eyes to the items still on Dumbledore's desk. "You want me…to take them?" he asked, sounding a touch bewildered.

"They are more yours than anyone else's," Dumbledore replied. "And I don't doubt that Vi would want you to have them."

Snape moved as if in a daze, slowly picking up the box and the Penseive and somehow balancing the two, along with the picture, in his hands as he returned to the fireplace. Had Meli not tossed in a handful of floo powder, he would probably have burned up in the flames without once noticing them. He disappeared in a green swirl of fire instead.

Meli looked somberly at Dumbledore. "I would never in my life have thought that anything had happened between Severus and Tinúviel Everett—or any woman, for that matter," she told him quietly.

The headmaster shook his head. "My dear Meli," he sighed, "that is entirely the point: nothing did."

****

14 SEPTEMBER 1979

Tippy was an unusual house elf no matter how you cracked it. In every respect except for English grammar, he had proven over and over again that, compared with his fellows, he was an excellent servant but otherwise extremely odd. It started with the fact that he still worked for a family that had rewarded him by giving him clothes a generation before, and it went downhill from there.

After Tinúviel's graduation, she had returned to her parents' house, where she lived with her father and brother, a small assortment of house elves, and Tippy. Within six weeks, Severus had learned to keep a beater's club or some other blunt object ready to hand, for Tippy would often come to him for help when Tinúviel got into a nasty situation with her father, whom St. Mungo's would not accept into the closed ward but who was becoming dangerous in his progressive insanity. It was not uncommon for Tinúviel to barricade herself in the pantry or a closet while her father screamed outside; as the weeks turned into years, it was not unheard-of for her to be so badly beaten that Tippy would flee to Severus for healing potions. Aldarion generally came out better than his sister did, but he was unable to help her. After the first year, Severus stopped asking why neither of them fought back, and he stopped offering to get Tinúviel out.

Aldarion had been a loner at Hogwarts, and Tinúviel had had only one friend. It was, therefore, always to Severus that Tippy went for help.

Technically speaking, Tippy's master was Maeglin Everett, but the house elf, perceiving that that gentleman was bordering on (if not wholly in the territory of) criminally insane, chose to defer instead to his master's children. It was in this way that he was simultaneously loyal and disloyal to his family. When Tinúviel told him to get help, he followed her orders, as a good house elf should do, but the following of those orders required him to rat on Maeglin—hence, the beater's club. Severus had become quite skilled at sorting words and phrases out from among the sounds of whacks and _ouch_es that accompanied them.

On this occasion, however, Tippy came without being told to, and he beat himself nearly to a pulp while spilling out as quickly as possible what had happened. By the time the story had poured forth, Severus knew that he was too late to save Tinúviel, and there was only one thought in his mind as he gave Tippy new orders.

__

I've lost her for good, and I never once told her…

"I can't be the first one there," he told the house elf tersely. "Where's Aldarion?"

"Master Aldarion is visiting his aunt," Tippy sobbed.

"Right." Severus gritted his teeth. "Go to Hogwarts. _Drag_ Dumbledore there if you have to. You have ten minutes."

Tippy nodded curtly, then disappeared.

Those ten minutes were among the worst of Severus Snape's life. Had he left as soon as he'd heard, he would still have arrived too late, but it killed him from the inside not to be doing _something_, however futile it might prove to be. He couldn't let Tinúviel die, even though it had happened before he knew about it.

He paced furiously, he checked several times to be sure that he had his wand, he made certain that his watch was working properly. It seemed that the entire decline and fall of the Roman Empire could have taken less time than those ten minutes. At last, though, they ended, and he apparated, appearing in the first floor corridor of the Everett mansion.

Maeglin Everett lay stunned on the floor, doubtless the work of Dumbledore, who knelt nearby. Severus caught sight of a booted foot and a black robe, saw the distraught Tippy hovering a few feet up the corridor from Dumbledore…

The headmaster looked up, his eyes not twinkling but shining with unfallen tears. "I'm sorry, Severus," he said quietly. "There's nothing I can do."

"May I…see her?" Severus asked, his throat tightening.

Dumbledore nodded and stood, moving to stand near Tippy.

"Oh, God."

A carving knife lay where Maeglin had probably dropped it after making a deep slash across Tinúviel's throat. She had bled out long before, the carpet soaking up the life that flooded from her. Dumbledore's white robes bore some stain of it, but they were not soaked through.

__

This is not real, Severus thought numbly, even as he closed the distance between him and the body of his best friend. _I'm going to wake up any moment now and know that it was all just a nightmare._

Waking didn't come, though. He arrived at her side, knelt there as Dumbledore had done, looked on the face paled with death…and waking wouldn't come. Her short hair (cut to jaw-length just the week before) splayed around her head in a bloodied golden halo, and her hard eyes looked blankly past Severus and the mortal world to which he still belonged.

"Tinúviel!"

It was useless to call her, of course, aloud or otherwise, but even Severus Snape had moments of illogic and emotional response, and if there was ever a time for such, this was it. Tinúviel was more than his best friend; she was his _only_ friend and the only person, moreover, with which he'd ever wanted some kind of future. His family, especially on his father's side, he had been happy to set aside; Hogwarts and his tormentors there were gladly left behind. Even Dumbledore was an ally of necessity rather than of friendship, and he would be easily and blissfully forgotten if the war ever ended.

Tinúviel, though, was a dear and beloved friend. Severus would never have chosen to set her aside, leave her behind, or forget her, and to have the choice made for him by a raving madman with a knife—

There was nothing he wanted more in that moment than to have Tinúviel back. He closed his eyes so tightly that his head soon ached, and he gave himself up to that thought for one agonizing minute—

There was a movement in front of him. His eyes flew open, but rather than the intrusion of Dumbledore, Tippy, or some other party on his grief, the source of the movement proved to be Tinúviel herself. Somehow, impossibly, she had stirred, and now as he watched, she sat up before his eyes.

Severus turned to look at Dumbledore, but the older wizard was just as astonished as he was. Tippy had leapt several feet backward and was watching the scene through eyes the size of platters. He looked back to find that Tinúviel was still there, sitting up as though she had wakened from a nap. And yet…

"Tinúviel?"

She turned her head to face him, but her eyes were still glassy with death. There was no life in her frame, only a weird, hollow animation that mocked him as much as the rich red that flooded the carpet they both sat on.

Blood. Blood on the carpet, on his hands, on his clothing, filling his nostrils with its powerful, sickening scent…Tinúviel's blood.

Tinúviel's life.

__

He had animated her somehow; by wishing her to live, he had brought her back, but only partially. The being in front of him had her face, but it had no knowledge of her smile or her cares. This was a shell, and somehow he had animated it.

"Headmaster," he breathed. "I don't—how do I—?"

He had no idea how to undo what he had done.

Severus would never recall exactly how he and Dumbledore managed it, but they did eventually figure out how to lay the shell to rest. Tinúviel returned to her previous state, and Severus looked miserably to Dumbledore.

"I've delayed calling the Aurors," the headmaster told him softly. "But I can't delay much longer."

Severus nodded slowly. "Then I suppose I had better go," he replied raggedly. It wouldn't do for Magical Law Enforcement to find him there, after all; if they suspected him of anything and decided to search him or take him in for questioning, there wasn't much he could do to hide the Dark Mark on his arm. He tried to remember that he actually cared about such things.

He stood woodenly, then managed not to recoil when Dumbledore laid a hand on his shoulder. "For what it's worth, Severus," the headmaster said gently, "I'm sorry."

__

But not sorry enough to have helped her and prevented this, Severus thought viciously. _And now that it seems I've got some ability at necromancy, you'll be wanting to use it—to use _me. He let that sentiment shine through to his eyes, then tripled its nastiness by answering, with a sneering drawl, "Really."

He pulled away, making no effort to mask his sudden sense of betrayal, then disapparated.

ooo

Alone in his flat once more, he had time to consider that sense. On the one hand, Dumbledore had done nothing to actively betray either him or Tinúviel; indeed, hadn't he just saved Severus a potentially disastrous brush with the Aurors? He hadn't had to, after all—especially after Severus' sudden display of uncontrolled necromancy.

Or rather, it had not been absolutely required of him to protect Severus from the Aurors. He could have done his civic duty and let the young Death Eater fall into the lap of Justice…but the deepest Slytherin instincts Severus possessed told him that Dumbledore had not betrayed him simply because it was not in the headmaster's best interest to do so. Severus' best interests—if he had any—were important only insofar as they served Dumbledore's interests, and Dumbledore's interests at the moment included having a spy in the Inner Circle. And towards that end, Dumbledore would be only too happy to keep the Aurors away from him and even, for icing on the cake, to give the impression that he somehow sympathized with Severus.

__

As if he could, Severus thought bitterly. _Dumbledore has more friends than Shakespeare had plays; _he_ could afford to lose one or two. All I _had_ was Tinúviel._

At first he thought to sit on the couch, but it all but faced the chair that Tinúviel had customarily perched on when she came to visit. The couch was out, then, and so was the chair. He tried the kitchen next, but it, too, was full of ghosts. At last he retreated to the one place in his flat she had never entered: the bedroom.

Once there, with the door closed behind him, he fell back on his bed and willed himself not to think. It was harder this time than it had been the one time he'd tried it before; that time he'd shut down his brain almost immediately and kept it numbed for three days before Tinúviel—

He squeezed his eyes shut again, but that only returned his attention to the smell of blood—_her_ blood. He had knelt in it, and it had clung to him when he'd stood again. The scent was overpowering, nauseating.

He rolled off of the bed and quickly changed, tossing aside the soiled clothes to be evanesced later. Some traces of blood had seeped through to the skin, so he washed his knees and shins as well as his hands before putting on a clean pair of trousers. He stared at his wash basin then, unwilling to discard the water and suddenly unsure about discarding his bloodied garments. This wasn't evidence of a murder, nor was it the blood of an enemy; it was _Tinúviel's_ blood, and it deserved better than to be thrown away as rubbish. Just as Tinúviel herself had deserved far better than she'd received.

Severus pondered the basin calculatedly, although it could be argued that his calculations were influenced, or outright directed, by a dementia of emotion that rather skewed reality and, ergo, logic. After several minutes of chillingly clear thought, he retrieved his clothes and washed them in the basin. Then he placed his towel in the wash water, and, when it was sopping, put in another, larger one. Between them, the two towels absorbed all of the bloody water.

These he removed from the basin and laid out in the bathtub to dry. He hung his rinsed-out clothes on the shower-curtain rod, then returned to the bedroom.

He succeeded in not thinking long enough to fall eventually into a stupor, and when he woke from that, the towels and clothes were finally dry. He took them from the bathroom to the front room and laid them out in front of the hearth.

Next he started a fire in the fireplace. When it was going strong, he picked up the last pieces of Tinúviel Everett that were left to him, and slowly, one by one, he threw them into the fire. There was no way to bury blood, but cremation—or whatever subset of cremation this might be considered to be—was far more honorable than being poured down a drain. Severus considered, too, though not entirely rationally, that between Tinúviel's sense of humor and her awareness of her short temper, she would have appreciated such an end.

He knelt in front of the fire for an untold length of time, until it had spent itself and nothing was left of it but the embers. Then, and only then, did he finally lower his outward calm and allow the tears to flow at last.

ooo

The trial had been a mere formality, and, by the end, it had also become a macabre joke, much to Severus' disgust. Maeglin Everett had been lucid when they revived him and had confessed to everything. His barrister had immediately filed a motion to have the confession withheld because his client had been in a "delicate state of mind in the wake of his daughter's tragic, unfortunate, accidental death." The judge, perhaps missing the "accidental" part of the claim, had actually ruled in the defendant's favor.

That, of course, had necessitated the calling forth of witnesses, and the only available witnesses for the prosecution were Aldarion Everett, who had not witnessed the event; Albus Dumbledore, who had been first on the scene after the event; and Tippy, who could not be expected to testify against his master.

The prosecutor did his best, however, and to everyone's shock (including the despicable barrister's, who went for a sympathy move with the jury by affecting to keel over from a heart attack), Tippy acquitted himself quite well. Granted, his three hours in the witness box were extremely violent ones, made all the more so by the prosecutor's loan of a beater's club, but he spilled the entire story, giving details that only a true eyewitness could have observed and so effectively tightening the noose around his master's neck that even the jurors were uncomfortably aware of the snugness of their collars.

The barrister, having made a remarkable and ungracious recovery from his coronary difficulties, discovered the presence of mind to file an insanity plea. The prosecutor, who might originally have accepted it and struck a bargain, was by this time desirous of putting the barrister in his place. He therefore fought tooth and nail and carried the day, with the result that Maeglin Everett finished his days not in St. Mungo's but in one of the lighter pits (if such a thing truly existed) of Azkaban. This was far worse than most people thought he deserved, given that it was the barrister and not the insane man who would benefit most from the Dementors' company, but Severus, at least, was satisfied.

Tippy, who had been given clothes before Tinúviel was born, at last left his beloved station and went in search of other employment. No family was willing to have him, though, so he wandered aimlessly for a year or so—and then came to Hogwarts a mere two months before Severus was hired on as the Potions master there. The two had never precisely been friends, but Severus had a soft (well, a less hard) spot in his heart for Tippy out of gratitude for what little the house elf had been able to do for his best friend. And perhaps, too, he saw Tippy as one of the last surviving remnants of Tinúviel Everett.


	13. The Box

****

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Just in case you, like me, are subject to name-related confusion (just ask my mum—I give a different name every time I introduce myself), let me give you this heads-up: In the flashbacks that follow, the younger Severus Snape is always referred to as Severus, and the elder is always referred to as Snape. Thus, when Severus and Snape are standing side by side, the one called Severus is always the younger self of the one called Snape.

Oh, and on another note, this part of the story (and a couple of others, too) is not for the fainthearted Sirius Black or James Potter fans. As stated above, I am a Snape diehard. I cried at the end of Book Three, and not on account of Sirius being on the run or Harry having to go back to the Dursleys. I also laughed hysterically at the end of Book Five, then had a long, delighted phone conversation with Snarky about how glad we were that a certain cur was dead. Snape, not Black or Potter, is the sympathetic character here. You have been warned. (That means no hate mail over it, guys; save it for the things I _don't_ warn you about.)  
AE

****

Chapter 13: The Box

PRESENT

Curious though he was, Snape did not immediately investigate either the Penseive or the box. As much as he wanted to see what Tinúviel had placed in them, a part of him shied away from them—first because he felt that he would be invading her privacy and secondly because he feared what he might find. That she had been a spy set him somewhat at ease, but it also disturbed him; Tinúviel had hated Dumbledore far more than Snape had ever done. Only desperation could have made her his informant.

On arriving back in his rooms, Snape placed all of Tinúviel's artifacts on his worktable, then sat down with his back to them and brooded.

****

SEPTEMBER 1969

The first day of school his first year at Hogwarts had been, as with most things in Severus' life, a bitter mixture of pleasure and pain. His tormentors from the train had become best friends overnight, and the two of them now delighted in annoying him in the corridors whenever they saw him. His only relief was in the classroom, where he shared no classes with the Gryffindors until afternoon. He gave his teachers no trouble, and as long as they gave him none, they would find him an eager and willing student. Severus craved nothing so much as knowledge, and here at last he could obtain it—cruel Gryffindors notwithstanding.

There was only one thing other than information that drew his attention in class after class: a small, wiry girl with long, stringy blonde hair and calculating gray eyes. She, like he, was silent unless called upon by a teacher, and she, like he, knew the answer to every question put to her. When not in class, she was always reading, even as she walked the corridors. Whether it was the constant reading or the rapt attention she paid the teachers that drew Severus' notice first, he never afterward could recall, but he was curious about what other knowledge lay behind those cool eyes.

He had his chance for a closer observation in Double Potions, a situation that provided some consolation when he saw that the Gryffindors were grouped with the Slytherins. Black and Potter each shoved him in turn on their way to the Gryffindor worktables, and when Severus picked himself up, he found that one of the two stools at the worktable he'd been approaching was now occupied.

He cleared his throat uncertainly. "Er…do you mind if I sit here?" he asked.

A cool gray gaze accompanied the reply: "If you don't, no one else will, so you might as well if you want to."

"Thanks." He deposited his satchel, then took his seat, though he wasn't sure if he did so with or without the girl's blessing.

"Severus Snape, is it?" she asked coolly, her query interested but somehow still detached.

He looked at her cautiously. "Yes," he answered.

At last she smiled and extended her hand. "Tinúviel Everett," she introduced herself. "I'm pleased to meet you."

Severus offered her something like a cross between a half-smile and a nonplused expression as he shook the proffered hand. "Thanks," he said again. "Er, pleased to meet you, too."

Her countenance closed in a mask as easily as it opened in a smile, and she looked thoughtfully at him. "Do you prefer being called Snape or Severus?" she asked.

Severus stared at her wonderingly. "Are you sure you're a Slytherin?" he countered.

Everett grinned. "You think I'm mercurial enough to be a Gryffindor?" she suggested. "Or naïvely friendly enough to be a Hufflepuff?"

"Something of the sort," he allowed.

"Well, then, I'll let you in on a bit of a secret," Everett said confidingly. "You can't believe anything you see of me, so it's best not to try. I've more layers than an onion and more complexity than a neural regeneration brew." She nodded sagely and gave him a very knowing look. "Me mum says I'm complicated."

Severus shook his head, mystified. "All right," he acquiesced, not knowing what further he _could _say to that. He cast about for some solid footing, and the best he could find lay in front of him. "So…do you like Potions?"

The grin returned. "_Love_ it," Everett answered. "My mum holds an advanced mastery, so she's shown me a few things. Kids' stuff, really," she added, making a face, "but enough to whet my appetite. Do you?"

He shrugged nonchalantly (at least, he hoped it was a nonchalant shrug). "I don't know," he replied. "I haven't done much with potions." It was a lie, of course, but really, what was he supposed to tell a Slytherin he'd only just met?

Everett gave him a look from the corner of her eye that told him she knew or suspected the full extent of his "lack" of experience with potions. "You strike me as the observant type," she said softly. "Even if you don't like Potions, you'll be good at it."

Further conversation was made impossible by the entrance of Professor Amalgam, a thin male whose physique resembled a cross between a rat, a ferret, and a toad, and who was recognizable as human only because he was a biped possessing opposable thumbs. Everett sized up Amalgam with a sharp eye.

"It's going to be a _loooong_ seven years," she muttered, then, inexplicably, grinned.

"Attention!" Amalgam shrieked in a voice like fingernails on a blackboard. He glared at Everett, who looked impassively back at him. "I will _not_ allow trivial conversation in this class! Your name, miss?"

"Vi Everett," she replied. "Many apologies, sir; I meant no disrespect."

"That will be for me to determine," Amalgam snapped, then whipped his head around to glare now at Potter and Black. "Twenty points from Gryffindor for snickering out of turn!"

Severus permitted himself a smirk as Everett caught his eye and smirked back. It would indeed be a long seven years…but at least those years promised to be entertaining.

ooo

The next time they talked, it was Everett who asked for permission to sit across from Severus at dinner. He glanced up to find her looking, of all things, shy and uncertain.

"Sure," he replied.

"Thanks." She sat down, then fell silent.

Ordinarily, Severus would have let her remain silent and uncomfortable, but she seemed to want so badly to converse that he took pity on her. "So…what do you think of Professor Amalgam?" he asked lamely.

Everett smiled briefly. "He's good for a laugh, I suppose," she answered. "And he knows the curriculum, anyway." She cleared her throat. "So what do you think of Potions?"

Severus shrugged. "I don't know quite yet," he replied evasively. "But so far I like it."

"Well," Everett said, "Amalgam's very good at what he does most of the time. If you have a question he can't answer, I'd be happy to write my mum and ask her—if you want."

Severus furrowed his brow. "Amalgam doesn't know Potions well enough to answer questions?"

Everett raised her eyebrows. "He's a perfectly qualified teacher," she replied, sounding a bit like Professor McGonagall. "But he doesn't have a mastery. If you ask him what happens when you add asphodel to an infusion of wormwood, he can tell you. Ask him _why_ it'll happen, and he'll have to owl his university professor for the answer."

"Is this a common problem?" Severus asked sardonically.

Everett looked at him sheepishly. "Probably not," she admitted. "But _if_ you're particularly inquisitive about potions and Amalgam's particularly unhelpful—which I think he'd be—my mum _is_ a university professor."

"Does your mum know how outgoing you are?"

"Actually…" Everett blushed. "I'm really very shy. All I know to talk about is potions."

__

That would make you shockingly simple, Severus thought, recalling her earlier statement that she was complicated.

Before he could say anything further, a girl in a Slytherin robe stepped up to Everett, a book in hand. "Here's your book back, Vi," she said without preamble. "I gave up after the first paragraph."

Everett looked pained as she accepted the volume. "The first paragraph's one of the best parts!" she protested.

"I know," the other replied. "You told me. That's why I cut my losses and gave it up. Thanks anyway." She strode briskly away.

Everett rolled her eyes. "Stupid third year," she muttered. "What does _she_ know!" She shoved the book to the side, but not before Severus saw the title: _A Tale of Two Cities._

"You read Dickens?" he inquired.

Everett's eyes lit up. "I _love_ Dickens!" she breathed. "Do you?"

Severus nodded slowly. "My father says I've no business reading something so thoughtful," he told her. "But I do anyway."

"I can't remember the last time _my_ father said something so reasonable," Everett remarked ironically. "He's more likely to scream that the world is being taken over by oysters."

Severus thought it best not to inquire about that. "Have you read _Great Expectations_?" he asked instead.

Everett shuddered. "Hated it," she answered. "I burned it, green cover and all. You?"

"The same," he replied. "Except for the book-burning bit. I'm rather more fond of _A Tale of Two Cities_."

"Me, too." She looked thoughtful. "Tragic, isn't it, that such a good book should be followed by such a terrible one? Do you like _Hard Times_?"

Severus shrugged again. "Parts of it," he said. "It's not as remarkable as some of the others I've read, though."

They paused and stared at each other, then Everett slowly smiled. "I suppose this makes us friends, then," she stated after a minute.

"I suppose so," Severus replied, narrowing his eyes in the closest thing to a smile his upbringing would permit. "Call me Severus."

"Tinúviel." Everett extended her hand for the second time that day, and Severus again shook it.

"Not Vi?" he asked.

Now she narrowed her own eyes and parted with a cool little smile. "My teachers and classmates call me Everett," she answered. "The Slytherins call me Vi. My _friends_ are allowed to call me Tinúviel. You can call me Vi if you'd prefer, but I think nicknames are a bit more impersonal than full names—don't you?"

"I'd never really thought about it," he admitted. _But I _had_ always thought the opposite to be true_, he added silently.

"Oh." She shrugged. "I spend too much time thinking, I guess."

"Well, well, well."

Severus inadvertently froze at the sound of a gloating voice behind him. Tinúviel, by contrast, looked evaluatively over his shoulder, her face a sudden mask.

"Two peas in a pod, wouldn't you say, Sirius?" the voice continued.

"Most definitely, James," a second gloating voice answered. "I hear the wedding bells already, don't you?"

Severus felt the blood rush to his face, but Tinúviel showed no sign of embarrassment whatsoever; what she _did_ show were signs of worn patience.

"Do I detect jealousy, Black?" she asked smoothly. "Can't handle someone getting a head start on you?"

Behind Severus, Black shifted his weight, presumably turning to face this new target. "So you admit it, then?" he gloated.

"I admit that, whatever the facts are, you seem to _think_ Snape has got a girlfriend, and it makes you feel like a loser," Tinúviel shot back. "And I'll allow that you're right about one thing, anyway."

"Snivellus having a girlfriend?" Potter sniffed.

"No," Tinúviel sneered. "You being a pair of losers. Now why don't you get the hell out of here before I dissect you with a table knife?"

Both of the Gryffindors let out snorts of laughter, which were truncated suddenly by a yelp of pain from Potter. Severus turned fully to face them, his wand still at the ready.

"That was a warning hex," he told them. "Next time it's the knife for both of you, and the only question is if Everett or I'll reach it first."

Tinúviel leaned across the table toward the twosome. "Now sod off, you bloody gits," she growled.

The two Gryffindors did as ordered, and only when they were gone did Severus turn around and Tinúviel set down her knife.

"Sorry about that," she said airily. "I've a bit of a short fuse and an affinity for sharp, pointy objects." She looked ruefully at the knife. "And not so sharp ones that can still do damage if I'm annoyed enough."

Severus stared at her. "I've only ever heard my father talk like that," he breathed. "Never someone my own age!"

Tinúviel smiled thinly. "Profanity, when wielded properly and with a cool head, availeth much," she told him. "Especially when you're eleven years old and dealing with idiots. Please pass the pumpkin juice."

And from that time on, they had been inseparable friends.

****

PRESENT

Each had become the other's best and only friend at Hogwarts, and neither had ever indicated to the other that they wished for anything more. Snape had no clear recollection of when, exactly, it had come to his attention that Tinúviel was, in fact, a girl (and a pretty one, at that), but he had always known that nothing could ever come of it. Even before Voldemort had entered the picture, any romance in which Snape involved himself would have placed his significant other in danger; his family had plans for him—plans that did not include or account for a mortal lover. Had he ever once declared his feelings, death would have been the least of Tinúviel's worries.

At last his brooding drew him to the point of decisiveness, and he stood and walked resolutely to the worktable.

The photograph he set aside. If there was anything important about it, he would find out in time, but in the meantime, it belonged out of sight. His grief was private, and the last thing he either needed or wanted was a relic that would cause Zarekael to ask questions should the apprentice drop by unexpectedly. It was bad enough that Meli had already seen it.

The box, predictably, was warded, but he was surprised at how thoroughly warded it truly was. Snape was half-willing to wager a Galleon that Tinúviel had outdone Gringotts' wardmaster—and all of that for a wooden case just larger than a recipe box. Whatever she had kept in it, she hadn't wanted it found. Either she hadn't expected Snape to be the one breaking in, though, or she hadn't cared if he succeeded, for there was nothing protecting the box that he didn't know how to deactivate quickly and efficiently, and Tinúviel had been well aware of what he did and didn't know about wards and counter-wards. It heartened him slightly, if irrationally, that she hadn't gone out of her way to dig up an exotic spell he wouldn't know; that made it seem, superficially at least, that he wasn't truly breaking and entering.

The final ward gave way, allowing him to open the box at last, and at first blush, he was quite at a loss to explain what had justified such heavy protection. There was a small book, and beneath that he found only ordinary things that a teenage girl might keep on her bureau or vanity: a blue silk ribbon, a tiny pin shaped like a puppy, a shooter marble, a couple of jacks—perhaps two dozen items with no readily apparent purpose or value.

Puzzled, Snape opened the book, hoping it might shed some light on the importance of this collection, and enlighten him it did, though not in a comforting or reassuring way.

The book was no larger than his hand, but its size belied its importance. Each tear-stained page contained a name, a physical description, and a date—and the name at the top of the first page was Hyacinth Evans.

"My God," Snape whispered, the tiny book slipping from his suddenly nerveless fingers. "It's a log…"

He couldn't finish the thought aloud. Tinúviel had placed in this box everything that he carried in a dark, hateful corner of his own mind: the name of every victim whose suffering or death Voldemort had required and something memorable about each one that had burned itself irrevocably into the murderer. Each of the Evans sisters, he recalled, had had some animal pin; he remembered overhearing Lily telling Potter about it once. Hers was a kitten with nauseatingly large eyes, her sister Petunia's was a swan…and Hyacinth's was a silver puppy with a gold collar.

Snape's stomach tightened, and he drew his wand. A light tap and a specific spell allayed his fear, though; Tinúviel wasn't one to rob the dead, particularly someone she had killed. This wasn't Hyacinth's pin but rather a simulacrum, created from memory specifically for placement in this box. Tinúviel had sought to remind herself of what she'd done, but not at the cost of adding to her guilt.

He carefully replaced the items, then closed and re-warded the box. He still didn't know if Tinúviel had expected him to find it, but she had very likely known that he would understand. How could he not, even if he remained fully loyal to Voldemort? He had seen what her initiation had done to her, and he'd have had to know that it would never become easier for her. For all her cynicism and hell-raising, Tinúviel Everett had possessed a gentle spirit, hidden though it might be.

With the box closed and set aside, Snape now faced a far more formidable task. It was, he reasoned, nothing more than a collection of someone else's memories, but even as the thought was still forming, he heard its hollow ring. No Penseive, no memories, made for a harmless journey, and these still less so; memory was powerful and the memory of a close friend would be unpredictably potent. Snape knew very little of what he would find when he entered the Penseive, but knowing Tinúviel as he did, he was quite sure that it would be an emotional quest and thus should not be lightly embarked upon. He could ill afford an emotional storm, especially not now, in the middle of a war in which lives depended upon his clarity of thought and control of his own feelings.

He very nearly convinced himself with that argument, came within a breath of putting the Penseive away until that mythical Someday when he would be ready. He even went so far as to pick it up, but before he could turn away from the worktable with it, something—he never could decide if it was strength or weakness—got the better of him and he set it down again. For better or for worse, he had to know what she had been so desperate to keep from Voldemort.

__

It won't do anything but upset you, a tiny voice at the back of his mind taunted. _There are no answers here. There aren't even questions. Anything she'd want you to know, she'd have told you already. All you're doing is rehashing every single missed opportunity, and you can do that easily enough without her Penseive to help you. You're only torturing yourself._

Snape gritted his teeth. _Perhaps so,_ he conceded. _But if so, I'm doing nothing new, so I won't be any worse off for it._

He glanced at the clock. Assuming that he wasn't summoned by Voldemort (which was, admittedly, not at all a safe assumption these days), he had two days before anyone expected him to be anywhere. It was time for dinner, and his absence might be noticed, but he and Zarekael were both notorious for losing themselves in their work and forgetting to eat, much less to attend formal meals. A few extra wards at the door would keep him from being disturbed, and then he would have Friday night, Saturday, and Sunday to wade through the Penseive.

It would require at least that much time, too, he saw. The bowl was filled and its contents were compact; Tinúviel had placed in it more memories than most people Dumbledore's age could spare, and she had died at twenty-three. Much of it would doubtless be taken up by reports to Dumbledore, but there would be a number of other things, as well—things not directly related to her spying that she would nevertheless want kept away from Voldemort.

Snape turned, wand in hand, and added three more wards to his door, then turned back to the Penseive, took a deep breath, and slowly placed his hand in the pool of memory. Hundreds of silvery tendrils swam around, their motion growing more rapid, and then the sensation faded altogether, as did his familiar surroundings. He appeared fully in Tinúviel's memories, without any immediate time reference, sense of direction, or understanding of his location, knowing only that he had committed himself and must see it through once and for all.


	14. Ghosts

****

Chapter 14: Ghosts

He appeared, of all places, in the Potions classroom sometime during his last couple of years at Hogwarts. Tinúviel's hair was shoulder-length, he saw, and she had cut it to that length part-way into their sixth year. She sat by herself at their worktable, and Snape was at first unable to account for his younger self's absence; he had never missed a Potions class during his time as a student, and it was clear that the start of the period was approaching. Tinúviel looked nervous and a bit worried, but he had no way of knowing why.

She was not by herself for long, however, for Sirius Black appeared on-scene within seconds of Snape orienting himself, and the Potions master's jaw tightened. He recognized this now, and it was not something he particularly wanted to relive.

It was the day after the Marauders' "prank" had nearly ended in his death.

"Hello, Everett," Black said, far too brightly, as he slid into Severus' seat beside her and managed to pin her wand hand. He was practically sitting in her lap, but she was well-aware of the consequences of using physical force; he would have to anger her past the point of fear in order for her to lash out.

"Get the hell away from me, Black," she growled through her teeth, "or so help me God—"

"Oh, don't bother threatening to report on me," he interrupted lazily. "I discovered as recently as last night that I can do whatever I please." He leaned in even closer, mere inches, to all appearances, from a kiss. "I can even get away with murder."

"Drop dead," she hissed, pushing him away as best she could; with one arm pinned and the table so close by, she had little room for creating effective leverage.

Black, unfortunately, was not put off. "So what's the price for a date with you?" he persisted, parting with a lecherous smile.

Tinúviel glared at him. "I, unlike the other females with whom you apparently keep company, am not a whore out for hire," she snapped. "Contrary to what you obviously think, I'm a lady, and an honorable one at that."

Black snorted. "So you keep company with Snivellus Snape?" he said disdainfully. "What's he got that I haven't, I wonder?"

Outside either Tinúviel or Black's field of vision, but well within Snape's view, Severus entered the scene, his countenance cold marble but his eyes burning with hatred as he looked on the scene playing out at his worktable.

"For starters, he's got more sense than arrogance," Tinúviel retorted. "For another, he behaves as a gentleman, rather than God's gift to women. And to cap the whole, he's not _you_!" She again shoved him, managing to buy herself a bit of space, though it didn't dislodge him completely.

Beast that he was, Black actually leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. This time, however, Tinúviel didn't have to react. No sooner had Black pressed his case than Severus drew his wand and cast a hex that sent the hated Marauder flying off of the stool to sprawl on the floor beside the worktable. Tinúviel whirled to see Severus, who was glowering over Black as he scrambled to his feet.

"Why don't you go back to your seat?" Severus suggested darkly. "And if you _ever_ bother Miss Everett again, you and I will have more than words, no matter what the consequences."

Snape smirked spitefully as the humiliated Black looked venomously at Severus. The animagus was prevented from reply by the entrance of Professor Brewer, so he temporarily stepped back from the battle line and returned to the Gryffindor side of the room, seating himself next to James Potter. Potter listened to whatever it was that Black said, then turned to glare at Severus.

__

Why would she have placed this memory in the Penseive, though? Snape wondered. This particular incident predated either his or Tinúviel's initiation into the Death Eaters, and it certainly gave no indication that she was in any way disloyal to Voldemort. There had to be some other reason…

__

Maybe she just didn't want to remember, he thought, watching his younger self sit down.

Tinúviel smiled gratefully. "Thanks," she said.

"You're welcome," Severus replied gruffly. "Are you all right?"

"Madder than hell," she rejoined calmly, "but otherwise fine." She looked sideways at his flushed, out-of-breath figure. "You?"

Severus ground his teeth, and Snape felt again the helpless anger, betrayal, and hatred as both he and his younger self stared at the Marauders. "I hate them," Severus said quietly. "And someday, I'll be able to _do_ something about it without—" He broke off and snapped his mouth tightly shut.

Tinúviel looked evaluatively at him. "What's happened, Severus?" she asked quietly.

He shook his head, and Snape knew, even if Tinúviel hadn't done, that there were tears close at hand. "If I tell anyone, Dumbledore will expel me."

She stared at him in cold, horrified shock. "He'll _what_?" she whispered, a dangerous tone surfacing in her voice.

"He chose Black over me," Severus replied stiffly. "Not all that surprising, really, but unpleasant nonetheless."

Tinúviel flushed angrily, but she held her silence and set her teeth as Brewer started droning about the difference between two closely-related potions. She waited just until the mediocre teacher became absorbed in his lecture, then muttered, just loudly enough for Severus and Snape to hear, "If Black represents the side of right, I don't want to have a thing to do with it."

Severus nodded, but Snape winced. It had been that comment that had started him thinking—not about joining Voldemort himself, for he had been considering that for a long time, but about taking Tinúviel with him when he joined.

ooo

The scene faded, and for a moment Snape stood by himself in a storm of gray tendrils of cloud that whipped around him in every imaginable direction as the Penseive carried him across (up? down?) to the next nearest memory. It occurred to him suddenly that the memories hadn't necessarily gone into the Penseive in chronological order, and after fifteen years of swirling around undisturbed, they were most certainly in no particular order now. He had no further time for thought, though, for the storm at last settled and a new scene opened up.

ooo

He came to rest in Dumbledore's office. Tinúviel stood in front of the headmaster's desk, but she wasn't wearing student robes; it must be post-graduation. To Snape's eye, she seemed extremely agitated, perhaps nearing the point of panic, but he doubted very much that Dumbledore saw the same.

"Please," the headmaster said, "have a seat."

"You know I won't," Tinúviel snapped, more out of impatience than antipathy, Snape thought. "And don't bother offering me candy, either, because we both know I won't take it."

Dumbledore, who had picked up a candy dish to make the offer, shrugged and set it down again. Before it rested fully on the desk, however, Tinúviel was already talking again.

"Phamelia Marvolo's been officially introduced, and she told the Dark Lord to go to Hell. We've got to—"

Dumbledore held up a restraining hand. "Rest assured, Vi," he said calmly, "something will be done."

Snape went cold with shock. Tinúviel had tried to save Meli, or had at least brought the matter to Dumbledore's attention. Why, then, had the headmaster turned the job over to him?

"But _what_!" Tinúviel demanded. "What am I supposed to do? How can I—"

"Nothing," Dumbledore told her simply.

Tinúviel's eyes widened in rage. "Nothing! **_Nothing!_**"

Again he held up his hand. "_You_ don't need to do anything," he explained.

__

This is after I'd already met with him, Snape realized. _She didn't have to do anything because he knew already that I would._

"Severus will take care of it," the headmaster finished, confirming Snape's thought.

"Sev—" Tinúviel broke off as the full implication of that statement hit her. "_Severus_ is handling it?" Snape winced at the sudden, unrestrained hope that flared in her eyes. "He's come around, then?"

Dumbledore lowered his hand. "I don't know for certain," he answered truthfully. "I'm meeting him in two days. What I _can_ tell you is that his loyalty is no longer what it once was."

Snape stared at him. Dumbledore hadn't done more than read his letter, and he already thought him to be coming around? How could he possibly have known that Severus wanted to talk with him about Phamelia Marvolo, much less that the young Death Eater wanted help in rescuing her?

Tinúviel, meanwhile, considered his words, having no idea that the headmaster had spoken presumptuously. She caught his eye and cleared her throat. "I'm glad Phamelia's in good hands," she said at last. "But look, whatever happens…if he turns spy, or even just disloyal, please don't tell me. He'll be safer that way.

Dumbledore nodded slowly. "I understand," he replied. "But while ignorance is perhaps the safest course, don't give up on your hope."

ooo

Again the scene faded to gray, and Snape glared at the cloudy memories. Dumbledore had assumed, just on the basis of a panicked letter, that Severus would help Meli and that, therefore, Tinúviel wouldn't have to. As desperate as he'd been to save the child, Severus had had to force himself to keep his appointment with Dumbledore and to see through to the end the mission to which he'd committed himself. But he had very nearly not gone, and if things had played out according to that script, Meli might very well have been in her grandfather's custody until the night Harry Potter defeated him.

Dumbledore, who had called him and Zarekael untrustworthy for their Machiavellian choices over the summer, had been just as Machiavellian when dealing with his spies. He had been prepared to risk the health, safety, and well-being of an innocent child, all for the sake of subverting Severus Snape.

He had wondered at the depth of Tinúviel's hatred toward Dumbledore, so much deeper than even his own, but now he began to plumb that depth and to see what had lurked beneath the surface of what she had left unsaid.

__

But I trust Dumbledore, a part of him protested. _Tinúviel had her reasons, but they needn't be mine._

Dumbledore knew about the Penseive and he never said a word to me, another part of him retorted. _And he wagered Meli for the sake of gaining another spy._

Before the argument could go further, another scene materialized.

ooo

Tinúviel stood in almost exactly the same place in front of Dumbledore's desk, but she now wore her Slytherin robes. The headmaster stood opposite her with the desk between them, looking down at a logbook. A Dicto-quill was poised and ready; this was a spy's report.

Tinúviel's countenance was stony, and when Dumbledore asked her to report, she did so in as even a voice as she could manage. To Snape, who knew her better than Dumbledore had ever done, she looked as though she barely succeeded in seeming calm; to Dumbledore, he saw, she appeared even more emotionless than she had probably intended as she spelled out in horrific detail her initiation kill. Snape knew the story well, for he had been present for her report to Voldemort after she returned from the Evans' home.

As a point of pride, Tinúviel refused to cry in front of the headmaster, whom she considered more enemy than ally, but what Dumbledore saw, in all likelihood was a cold killer who really and truly _didn't_ care that she had just committed her first murder. Snape watched almost pensively, having a good idea of what was about to happen and not at all sure he wanted to see it. If Dumbledore made even one verbal misstep, Tinúviel would snap—but the headmaster didn't know that.

"And how are you, Vi?" he asked after he had closed her logbook. He was looking, Snape knew, for some flicker—even the briefest of glimpses—of humanity; in Tinúviel's place, Snape would, at that time, have thought that he was trying to see vulnerability.

Tinúviel thought so, too. "I'm fine," she answered, quite convincingly. "A little tired—I'm not accustomed to being up this late."

Snape winced. That had been, under the circumstances, exactly the wrong thing to say. Dumbledore's neutral countenance turned grave as he considered his young spy. "I was afraid you might be upset," he suggested quietly.

__

Wrong answer.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you," Tinúviel said coldly. "You'd like to see me sobbing my heart out, reduced to a guilt-ridden lake of tears because I took a human life." Her voice warmed as she glared at the headmaster. "Well, think on this: If I ever _do_ cry, you will _never_ see it, old man, because I'd rather _die_ than humiliate myself like that!"

__

What could possibly have compelled her to spy for him? Snape wondered in anguish. Why_ did she put herself through this?_

Tinúviel turned to go, but Dumbledore cleared his throat. "That was not at all my intention," he told her calmly. "But please understand: You gave a very convincing appearance that you didn't care, and—forgive me—that is not the most reassuring impression."

Her back, which was turned to Dumbledore and Snape, stiffened painfully. "What does it matter what impression I make?" she asked bitterly. "Severus and I—we're nothing more than Slytherins, one step from bilgewater and as trustworthy as vipers. No one—_no one—_expected us to do anything other than what we're doing now, and I hardly think it matters if either of us feels the slightest trace of remorse when we kill; all that matters is what people think of us and how they treat us because of it."

Snape blinked in surprise as he heard his own words repeated by another. _Are they true?_ he thought, suddenly torn. When Zarekael had argued otherwise, his own assertion had seemed so clear and absolute, but now he wondered. Perception was reality…but an individual's perception could make a difference even in the face of the public's perception. Snape, for one, would never see Tinúviel Everett merely as a Death Eater or a murderer, just as he would never see Zarekael as that. Did his minority view make any difference at all?

Tinúviel turned to face Dumbledore, everything that lived in her soul now bared in her eyes: hatred, guilt, bitterness. "You _expected _us to turn," she said through her teeth. "You never saw past the green and silver on our robes." She narrowed her eyes. "Just as you never saw past the Marauders' red and gold. You favor them over us, you look the other way when they torment us, you punish us when they pick a fight—_you_ made us what we are, and may you be called to account for it!"

Silence hung in the air for a breath, then Dumbledore shook his head, sadness showing in his eyes. "You must care for Severus very much, then, if you're willing to ally yourself with me."

Tinúviel screwed up her face to ward off tears and glared hatefully at him. "Go to Hell, you son of a bitch!" she said in a strangled voice. With what composure was left to her, she turned smoothly away and left his office, slamming the door behind her. Snape was pulled along with her as the memory continued to play out, and in seemingly no time at all he stood beside her as she crouched in one corner of a tiny, dust-blanketed classroom down an unused corridor halfway to the dungeons. She was quiet for a long moment after warding the door and covering the room with a silencing charm, but Snape saw cracks forming in the dam, and just as he moved to sit in front of her, the dam came crashing down and the broken-hearted sobs she had concealed so carefully from Dumbledore burst forth in violent, uncontrolled spasms. She tried to huddle several times, but each time it nearly suffocated her, so at last she leaned her head back against the wall and cried until there were no tears left to her.

It was an awful thing, sitting and watching her cry alone when he was right there with her. The most either had ever offered the other had been a comforting hand on the arm, but Severus hadn't been there to give that, and Snape couldn't give it now. He could make about as much of a difference here as Scrooge had done when visiting Christmases past; he wasn't even sure that he _could_ touch this shade's arm—his hand might well pass straight through.

When the more violent sobs had passed, Tinúviel was able to talk, and talk she did, even though at the time she had been addressing only the air. "I'm sorry, Severus," she sniffled. "I've made a deal with the devil…and the worst of it is, I don't even know who the worse devil is." She buried her face in her hands and had a long, unintelligible conversation with herself. By the time she fell silent, her sobs had stopped altogether, and she lifted her head to reveal dry, bloodshot eyes peering out of a tear-streaked face.

Snape looked her shade in the eye…and then he had a nasty shock. The invisible wall between him and the memory seemed to partially disappear, for Tinúviel _met_ his eye, then gave a violent start. "Who's there?" she whispered. "Who are you?" She reached out a hand and brushed it through Snape where he sat.

After staring very hard at him for a moment, she leaned her head back against the wall and squeezed her eyes shut. "Now I'm hallucinating," she groaned. "That's _all_ I need."

Two decades parted them, but it seemed suddenly that there somehow existed a bridge. Tinúviel stumbled to her feet and left the room, and Snape stayed rooted to the spot as the scene faded around him. She hadn't been hallucinating unless he had, too.

Her hand, when it passed through him, had been almost substantial.

ooo

There followed several routine reports to Dumbledore, which made little impression on Snape except that, on occasion, he gained a better understanding of why certain operations had gone awry. Tinúviel had employed similar methods to those he and Zarekael used, but because the stakes had been rather lower at the time, she enjoyed far more success with much less risk.

When he at last stood in a place other than the headmaster's office, Snape had to reorient himself again; he had forgotten, quite literally, that there was a world outside of that portion of the castle.

This time he was outside, within a few yards of a tree near the lake. That particular tree, he remembered suddenly, had been his and Tinúviel's preferred place for studying when the weather cooperated with their inclinations. It was far enough away from the castle that they didn't feel closed in, but it was near enough that, should the Marauders decide to be particularly malicious, they could make it to safety more often than not.

He had avoided that tree after her death, to the point that he had forgotten altogether that it existed.

Severus and Tinúviel sat beneath it now, drilling one another on defensive jinxes. Finals must be nearing, then. Snape found himself looking around for the Marauders, and only their conspicuous absence gave him some indication of what might be about to play out. He had arrived at a date about six weeks after Sirius Black's attempt on his life.

Black and Potter, Snape recalled, had left them alone for a time, the latter voluntarily, the former seemingly at his friend's behest; Potter, at least, had realized that they had escaped punishment only by the skin of their teeth. Unless he was much mistaken, however, that brief respite was about to end.

Sure enough, it wasn't long before Black swaggered over with the air of someone having something to prove.

"Hullo, Snivellus," he said nastily as soon as he was within earshot. "I don't suppose you could spare your girlfriend for a few minutes—just long enough to talk to a _real_ man."

"Bugger off, Black," Tinúviel said from behind her book, which she had lifted in front of her face as soon as she'd seen him coming. "Or I'll deprive you of the ability to claim any manhood at all."

"Ought to have taught her better manners, Snivellus," Black snapped, but Snape saw now what he had missed then: The Marauder's cheeks had flushed at Tinúviel's comment.

Severus, meanwhile, eyed him malevolently. "I, unlike you, realize that she has the freedom to behave however she chooses," he replied coldly. "I also address her directly when I have something to say. _You_ ought to have learned better manners, especially with your family's, ahem, elevated status."

"Bugger off, Black," Tinúviel repeated, now drawing her wand and aiming it in an unfavorable direction, her eyes never leaving the book. "I won't warn you again.

A nervous expression indicated that Black didn't entirely doubt her threat. When he looked to Severus—almost as if he expected him to intervene—the young Slytherin merely raised his eyebrows and smirked.

"The entirety of a boy's bravery lies in a southerly direction," Tinúviel commented blithely, neither looking up from her book nor wavering in her aim. "Now that it's been neutralized, Black…" She trailed off, as if losing interest in him.

Snape smirked as Black stood staring at her in transfixed horror. Severus pointedly cleared his throat. "Feel free to sod off any time, Black," he suggested coolly.

The Marauder, evidently at a temporary loss for words, stared at the two of them for a few seconds later, then at last discovered the novelty of movement and fled the scene. Only when he was gone did Tinúviel look up from her book.

"Charming little prat, isn't he?" she remarked in a bored tone. Shooting a sidewise glance at Severus, she added, "You, of course, being a man rather than a boy, find your bravery elsewhere, I'm sure."

"It comforts me to know that," he rejoined sardonically.

"I would never place you in the same category as him," she assured him, and Snape perceived now a strange, anxious earnestness in her tone that he had not heard before. "He's nothing more than a flesh-covered ego; you, on the other hand, have a clear concept of reality and your place within it." She hastily shoved her nose back in her book, and from his vantage point, Snape saw that she was blushing furiously.

Severus, however, was distracted by other matters and so missed the scene entirely. He was quiet for a moment, then cleared his throat again. The sudden noise drew Tinúviel's eyes to him once more, and she found him looking both serious and purposeful.

Snape closed his eyes. He had regretted this conversation and hated himself for it, almost from the day it took place. Plunging headfirst into Dark folly was one thing, but dragging someone else in behind him—someone so important to him, moreover—was something other.

__

And you didn't learn the first time, an inner voice taunted him. _You did it to Tinúviel, and you did it again to Zarekael. Right and true friend _you_ are!_

Zarekael was different, he replied firmly, but he gritted his teeth. Yes, it had been Zarekael's idea, and, in fact, the boy had resorted to outright blackmail to convince Snape to allow him to volunteer, but he still hated himself for dragging his son in with him. He had long ago resigned himself to drowning in the mire, but he had wanted something better for Zarekael; his son had endured far too much already.

Severus spoke, and Snape was recalled to the scene.

"When you said that if Black represented the side of right, you wanted nothing to do with it," he began slowly, "how serious were you?"

Severus, unlike Snape, was not looking at Tinúviel. Now, years later, he saw what he had missed. Tinúviel looked suddenly ill, and it was a full minute before she could bring her countenance fully under control and answer calmly.

"You know I rarely speak rashly, Severus," she replied cautiously. She was, Snape understood, leaving her words open to interpretation. After all, Severus might be fishing to see if she was a Death Eater…but he might also be leading up to recruitment, or he might be asking a theoretical question in a poorly-chosen context. In any case, it wouldn't do to choose her own words poorly and leave a damaging impression on any side.

Severus hesitated briefly, but he soon pressed on. "You're not…the only one who feels that way," he told her. "And if you wanted to do something about it, there are people who would…willingly help you."

Tinúviel shivered—a motion that went unnoticed by Severus but which Voldemort would not have missed. She took a deep breath and held it, her eyes flitting about before coming to rest on Snape, then, after a hard stare, on the ground in front of her. When she let out her breath, she did so slowly, then looked up to meet Severus' eye. Only a few seconds had passed, and he showed no sign of having seen her hesitate.

"Tell me more," she said quietly, her mask settled into place.

Severus relaxed a little, then opened his mouth to do as she asked…and the world melted away again.

ooo

Snape sensed immediately upon coming to rest again that not very much time had passed at all. Tinúviel stood—or rather, hovered—before Dumbledore's desk, trembling like a bottled explosion just looking for a reason to burst free. She wore student robes, and both they and her hair were in disarray, as if she had run all the way up the stairs to the headmaster's office.

Dumbledore, a sharp contrast to Tinúviel, looked quite happy to see her, but he was also clearly aware that she was eyeing him balefully.

"Would you care for a lemon drop?" he asked, holding up a candy dish.

"Keep your bloody sweets to yourself," Tinúviel snapped. "And no, I won't have a seat. The only reason I'm here is you're the only one I could go to, and my conscience won't let me go to no one at all."

Dumbledore was, perhaps, a bit startled at her sharpness, but he also understood that chiding her would only further incense her, so for the moment, he held his peace. "What can I do for you, then, Miss Everett?" he asked politely.

Tinúviel let silence reign for a long moment, but when Dumbledore showed no sign of discomfiture, she set her jaw and stated her case. "The first thing I have to say, _sir_," she began, practically grinding out the last word, "is that I'm here because I have nowhere else to go. The Ministry is thoroughly useless, so caught up in its own importance that it cares little for things that really matter." She paused, giving the headmaster a very hard look. "I'll tell you for free that I neither like you nor trust you, but the enemy of my enemy is my ally, whether I prefer it that way or not."

Dumbledore weathered this entire speech with an air of supreme calm, probably recognizing that allowing her to rile him would accomplish nothing good. He appeared to consider her words for a moment, then slowly nodded. "I appreciate your honesty, Miss Everett," he replied at last. "I'm sorry you feel as you do, but I suppose I can see why you would feel that way. I can only hope to earn your trust in the future."

Tinúviel took a deep breath. "I have…an opportunity to infiltrate the Death Eaters," she told him. Then, her lip curled contemptuously and she added, "Though I suppose you, like everyone else, thought I was one already."

Dumbledore's calm mask melted into an expression of sadness, and a tiny flicker of remorse, visible only to Snape, flashed briefly through Tinúviel's eyes. "There you guess incorrectly," the headmaster replied. "I have never thought anything of the sort about you…nor," he added pointedly, "about Severus Snape."

Tinúviel narrowed her eyes angrily, and any remorse she might have felt died a quick death. "Well, there _you_ guess wrongly," she snapped. "I don't know particulars, but I do know this: you and the Marauders together have managed to push him over a line he might never otherwise have crossed. How the bloody hell else do you think I'd be able to get within spitting distance of the Death Eaters?"

Snape felt a peculiar hybrid of satisfaction and regret when he saw Dumbledore go green at that revelation. Tinúviel probably noticed, as well, but she never missed a beat in her tirade. "_You_ pushed him to it," she went on mercilessly, "and I mean to try and pull him out. Am I a fool to even ask for your help?"

The headmaster sat in miserable silence for several minutes, and Tinúviel let him stew. At last, he looked up and met her eye. "I don't' know how much help I can offer in redeeming Severus," he said quietly, "but if you wish to infiltrate the Death Eaters as a spy, you can be sure of my best help in that endeavor."

Tinúviel crossed her arms defiantly. "Just so you understand I'm not doing it for you," she growled. "I'm in for exactly two reasons: to get rid of You-Know-Who, and to do my damnedest to get Severus out."

"I fully understand," Dumbledore replied.

Snape's stomach roiled violently. There it was, then. Zarekael had gone in to save his life; Tinúviel had done it to save his soul.

The scene faded, but he didn't notice it pass. He withdrew into the darkest corner of himself, the place in which his deepest self-hatreds dwelt and were horribly treasured, a source of condemnation with which he by turns bludgeoned and poisoned himself.

He had ruined them, both of them. The two people who meant the most to him in his life were his best friend and his son, and he had pulled both of them into the darkness with him.

The Penseive selected another memory, then, and he was recalled to the new scene.

ooo

He was outside again, and Snape caught his breath. He knew this day quite well; it was unseasonably warm, freeing the students to roam the grounds and even sit outside to do their homework without fear of the autumn chill. Beneath his favorite tree sat his younger self and, at a dangerous distance, Tinúviel. They were seventh years, and they were studying in silence and mutual isolation. Tinúviel scowled fiercely at her Charms text, her eyes never deviating from the page; Severus paid admirable attention to his Arithmancy book, but that attention occasionally faltered. His eyes flicked to Tinúviel's still, hostile form at odd intervals, betraying (to the trained observer only) a concern for her present state.

Snape took a deep breath. Yes, he knew this memory well, and even had Tinúviel been loyal, she'd have had every reason to leave it in a Penseive and outside of Voldemort's knowledge. Still, knowing _every_ aspect of this particular event, he couldn't hold back a small smile of anticipation as Sirius Black swaggered over to the tree. Snape could tell from where he stood that Tinúviel was looking for a fight; what a pity that Black could not tell the same thing at _any_ distance.

The Marauder arrived at his destination, narrowly missing Severus' foot with a sharp kick and coming to a halt directly between Tinúviel and the sunlight. She looked quite calm, really—far too calm to be actually so—as she looked up from her suddenly beshadowed page. Severus, gauging her mood, laid down his Arithmancy book to watch; with the same purpose in mind, Snape took a few more steps toward the tree.

"Move out of my way," Tinúviel ordered coolly. "And while you're moving, kindly leave altogether."

Black smiled smugly. "I'm not _bothering_ you, am I, Everett?"

She set down her text and stood up to look him full in the face. She stood four inches shorter than him, but she more than made up for it in the fierceness of her glare. "I said," she growled through her teeth, "sod off."

Rather than interposing at this juncture, Severus smirked and moved a few inches to his right—away from the hostilities and in a far better position for an unimpeded view of what everyone but Black knew was coming. Snape, also smirking, stepped to his left to stand directly behind himself and benefit from the same view.

Either Black didn't notice Severus' movements or he didn't think them to be of much consequence. He merely sniffed and looked disdainfully down his nose at Tinúviel. "And what'll you do if I don't?" he asked haughtily. "I don't think you could do more than give me a light bruise." Now he turned a contemptuous eye in the direction of Severus. "Or are you going to set your pathetic boyfriend on me? I doubt he'd do much better than you, the pansy."

That, at last, gave Tinúviel the excuse she'd been hoping for. Her left fist caught him in mid-sneer and guaranteed him a black, swollen eye; her right bloodied and probably broke his nose. Then she kneed him and sent him toppling to the ground, where she swooped down on him like a harpy and continued the beating. When Black made the mistake of rolling to protect his abdomen, she rewarded him with a forceful elbow to the kidneys.

Severus suddenly straightened, then leapt to his feet. Snape knew that the boy looked suddenly horrified and paralyzed, though he could not see his younger self's face. Sure enough, there came Professor Flitwick, running faster than Jesse Owens, his robes disheveled by haste and his face positively purple with fury. Without a second look at Severus, he descended on the blood bath and hauled Tinúviel out by her arm. He pulled her back from the scene with surprising strength, not at all slowed down when the girl started screaming: "Stay the hell away from me, Black! Stay away from both of us!"

Severus paused only long enough to throw a contemptuous look at Black before following the enraged Flitwick; Snape was close on his heels.

"That's enough!" Flitwick snapped, actually shaking Tinúviel as he turned her loose next to the castle's outer wall. "What's gotten into you? Explain yourself!"

Tinúviel swallowed, then looked down. "I…have no explanation, sir," she mumbled.

__

None you could actually give_ him, anyway,_ Snape added silently.

Severus, however, spoke aloud. "She was provoked, Professor."

Flitwick turned on him. "Provoked in what way?" he demanded, his voice raising in pitch beyond the point of a mere squeak.

Tinúviel, too, whipped her head around in surprise; she probably hadn't realized that he had followed them. Severus' focus, however, was entirely on Flitwick.

Snape narrowed his eyes in amusement, admiring even now his quick thinking and judicious duplicity.

"Black has never left her alone while she's been a student here, sir," Severus replied, very sincerely. "She's been very patient with him—"

"Obviously," Flitwick interposed acidly. "So why is today different?"

Severus looked suddenly hesitant to continue, almost as though he thought he was betraying a confidence. Snape looked on approvingly. _Brilliant._

At last Severus spoke, haltingly. "You know, sir, that Vi's mother died last month?"

Flitwick nodded and looked confused; Tinúviel looked knowing but _was_ confused.

"Black…" Severus shot an apologetic look to Tinúviel, then continued reluctantly. "He said some things that are…well, disrespectful of the dead, sir. Vi can weather insults to herself, but not to her mother—not now, anyway. You understand?" Now he cleared his throat and looked sheepish. "She reacted before I could, and by the time I was able to do anything, you were already there. I'm sorry, sir."

Snape smirked appreciatively.

Flitwick swallowed it, though—hook, line, and sinker—and why shouldn't he? That story fit perfectly into his limited understanding of the students involved, and Severus looked _so_ penitent, and Tinúviel _so_ uncharacteristically riled, that Flitwick had no reason to disbelieve it in the least. He seemed to think very hard for a long moment, then nodded once. He was still stern, but his face had returned to its normal color.

"Very well," he said at last. "Fifty points each from Gryffindor and Slytherin for the fight. Miss Everett, you will serve detention tonight, and I will have words with Mr. Black."

Tinúviel nodded slowly and carefully unknotted her fists. "Yes, sir."

With a final, hard look at each one, Flitwick departed. Severus watched him go, then looked sidewise at Tinúviel, his expression still serious. "I don't suppose your rescuer could ask a favor of you?" he inquired dryly.

Snape winced. If he'd had it to do over again, he would have rephrased that request entirely. Coming as it did from a male Death Eater to a female Death Eater…well, even at the time he had not faulted Tinúviel for her response.

She stiffened and eyed Severus warily. "What sort of favor?" she asked cautiously.

Severus also stiffened and his eyes flashed, but he restrained all further reaction. "I just want to know what the hell happened back there," he clarified. "You've always had a short fuse, but…" He shook his head. "_Damn._"

Tinúviel paused a moment, then, putting a finger to her lips, drew her wand and surrounded herself and Severus (and Snape) with a silencing bubble. She seemed not to notice that Severus was suddenly trepidant as she once more pocketed her wand and leaned one shoulder against the wall. Her eyes rested on the lower part of Severus' face, not meeting his gaze.

__

Here it comes, Snape thought. _The first clue I never picked up._

"I…had my initiation last night," she said quietly.

Severus kept his expression carefully neutral as he attempted to make a reasonable connection between Tinúviel being initiated and Tinúviel hating the universe. For her to be upset was somewhat understandable, but there was no reason for her to be _this_ upset.

__

Unless, of course, she's a spy, Snape added silently.

She continued slowly. "I don't…much care for killing," she confessed. "There's power to be had other than life and death—murder's not what I signed on for."

__

Very true, Snape reflected, admiring her delicate verbal tap-dance. Nothing that she'd said was a lie, but the way she strung the sentences together led the observer to an incorrect, if necessary, conclusion 

Severus was silent a moment, still attempting to synthesize what he was hearing with what he'd just seen. When he did speak, his voice was detached and objective. "Do you regret your decision?"

Something flashed in Tinúviel's eyes that Snape had not understood at the time but which he was beginning to recognize (if not fully comprehend) now: She would have gone to the depths of Hell for him, and no regret of the consequences would make her regret the path.

It was strange to consider. While it was true that Snape would probably have made a similar sacrifice for Tinúviel had their situations been switched, he had never once really considered that anyone might be willing to do the same thing for him. Zarekael's joining Voldemort to ensure Snape's survival had been the first time, and he still didn't understand _that_. But Tinúviel, who'd had the choice to stay disentangled from the whole mess, had followed him in anyway—not to save his life but in the futile hope of saving him somehow from himself.

She now looked Severus squarely in the eye and set her jaw with a peculiarly Gryffindorish stubbornness. "Absolutely not," she replied firmly. "If I had it to do over again, I would choose exactly the same path." Her mouth curved in a fleeting mask of artistic dislike. "It's just that…bloodshed is not to my taste—" She broke off suddenly, and something of her heart trickled through to her countenance. "Oh, Severus," she choked, tears welling up, "she reminded me somehow of my mother!"

Snape had seen pictures of Tinúviel's first victim, and beyond a thin face and green eyes, he could not see much in common between Cordelia Everett and Hyacinth Evans. Still, a month after her mother's death, Tinúviel had probably found some further parallel that could only be seen through the eyes of the bereaved.

He wondered suddenly when Lily Evans had been told of her sister's death and if she had ever known that Tinúviel Everett was the killer. He recalled now that, while Tinúviel had made no effort to avoid Sirius Black that day, she had gone to extraordinary lengths to steer clear of Lily.

Now, leaning against the wall, Tinúviel hugged herself tightly and cried. Severus was taken aback, and no surprise; everyone had seen her angry, but no one, not even he, her best friend, had seen her shed tears over _anything._

She rocked herself slowly back and forth now, as though simultaneously playing the comforting mother and the frightened child. She never once looked to Severus for reassurance, for counselor was not one of his better-known roles. Even now, more than twenty years later, Snape was at a loss for how to deal with weeping females.

He had known back then, though, that he couldn't just stand by and leave her to feel so utterly alone. Hugging was not in his nature, nor would it have been either wise or appropriate in that time and place, but some reassuring gesture had to be made. After a moment of hesitation, Severus raised his hand and laid it on Tinúviel's shoulder.

She looked up in surprise, but Severus' objective had been at least somewhat achieved; she looked less alone and seemed comforted because of it.

"It's not bad to be squeamish," he said quietly, not at all guessing that some of what he was about to say would be repeated back to him within a year. "We all have different niches—the Dark Lord knows that. I joined for the knowledge, just as you did, and I didn't enjoy my initiation, either—to say the least." He curved his lips sadly in the tiniest of smiles. "You've proven yourself, Tinúviel. He won't ask it of you again unless he has to, because he knows it's not to your taste and it's not one of your gifts. We're far more valuable to him as brewers and researchers."

__

And if the Dark Lord had kept me locked away in a room with only my books and cauldron, the older and wiser Snape thought, _he would never have driven me to Dumbledore. It required only a few raids and Phamelia Marvolo to shake my loyalty._

His younger self's countenance now turned remorseful. "I'm sorry about your mother—for bringing her into this. I couldn't think of anything else."

Tinúviel sniffled loudly, but she narrowed her eyes in an approximation of a smile. "Mum was a Slytherin," she replied. "She would have approved." She burst into fresh tears, and though Severus looked distressed, this time he let her cry. He could offer no true empathy here; his own mother was still alive, and even had she been dead, he would not have missed her nearly as much as Tinúviel missed hers. He stood close by, though, just in case she needed him…and the scene slowly melted away.

ooo

It seemed that Snape's thoughts had in some way affected the Penseive's direction, for now it dropped him in a completely different setting. He swallowed, knowing that he had probably paled considerably, when he recognized the room in which he stood. This was the flat he had lived in while studying for his Mastery in London…and Tinúviel had only come there a handful of times. Only one of those occasions would have made it into the Penseive; every other time she had come over in company, and nothing of consequence had happened.

A year had passed since the scene under the tree, and his younger self sat motionlessly on the couch, staring at the far wall with unseeing eyes. He seemed not to have moved for days (and indeed, Snape knew that he had not), and every aspect of his appearance indicated apathy and neglect. He had carelessly tossed aside his frock coat and shoes, and his face had a peaked look suggesting that he had not eaten in some time. Three days' growth dotted his ordinarily clean-shaven cheeks, and his normally greasy hair had now a permanent wet look. There sat on the table in front of him a full fifth of whiskey and a rocks glass, both untouched. It was as though the shade on the couch had sought to drown his troubles in drink, then died before he could begin.

He had left the door ajar on coming in, Snape well remembered, and that had allowed Tinúviel to come in without knocking; it had probably also scared her terribly, knowing how paranoid he was about security, locks, and wards. She stood just inside the door now, directly to Snape's right and in clear view of the couch, though not in Severus' line of blind sight. She glanced to her left, seemingly catching Snape's eye (though such was illogical and impossible), then looked back to Severus, her brow furrowed in worry. She firmly closed the door behind her, then crossed to stand in front of the couch; Snape followed.

"Severus?" she called.

Her friend might have stirred slightly, but if so, it was hardly noticeable, and his eyes showed no flicker of response, recognition, or life.

Tinúviel hesitated, then lightly rested a hand on his arm. "Severus?" she repeated, a bit more loudly.

Severus blinked, then slowly refocused his eyes. When he saw who stood there touching his arm, his face went red and he actually shrank away. Tinúviel winced, but she withdrew a few steps and sat in a chair that somewhat faced the couch.

"When I didn't hear from you, I got worried," she told him. "I just came over to make sure you're all right."

Eighteen year-old Severus Snape was very much _not_ all right. He had now raised his feet to the couch, bringing his knees about level with his nose, and he had wrapped his arms around them and seemed to be trying to hide his head between his arms and behind his knees.

Snape felt his own face burning; even now, twenty years later, he felt anew the shame. He never had told Tinúviel what it was that he'd done, but he suspected that she'd had little difficulty in formulating a correct theory. She had been absolutely the last person on earth he'd wanted to talk to or see or even think about, but, true to Murphy's Law, she had been the first to hunt him down after—

Tinúviel regarded Severus silently for a few minutes, then calmly leaned forward and poured the equivalent of a shot into the rocks glass. She capped the bottle, picked up the glass, and downed it in a draught. This done, she set the glass back on the table and cleared her throat authoritatively; Severus didn't budge.

"You know, it's a lot easier to get drunk if you drink," she pointed out blithely. "Shall I play barkeep, or have you decided to stay sober after all?"

Severus slowly raised his head, but he did not look her way. "I'd prefer to stay sober," he replied hollowly.

"Pity," Tinúviel returned. "It really is very good whiskey."

Severus shrugged apathetically and would have returned to his ineffective hiding, but Tinúviel spoke again. "I was afraid you were dead."

He whipped his head around in surprise, his eyes widened in horror. "No," he breathed. "No, I'm alive—though not for lack of wishing otherwise."

"Were you hurt, then?" she asked anxiously. "I know it was a dangerous raid, but—"

"No," he interrupted. "I returned in perfect health."

__

More's the pity, Snape thought sadly. _Had I been seriously wounded, I'd have been in no condition to—_ He cut the thought off and closed his eyes tightly, as though to erase that one event from his past.

Tinúviel paused a beat, doubtless synthesizing his words and her own observations into a probable theory about what had happened, and probably also considering what to say or do next. "All right," she said at last. "I'm glad to know you're physically all right, anyway." She regarded him silently for a moment, then switched tactics. "I'm sorry I didn't come sooner, but Dad's not been lucid the past few days. I finally managed to slip him a sleeping draught so I could go out—Aldarion's keeping an eye on him now."

Severus nodded, but he obviously understood little, if anything, of what she said.

Tinúviel furrowed her brow, her concern advancing to border on tears. "Severus, for God's sake, talk to me! What happened?"

He shuddered and buried his head once more. To the older Snape, he looked like a small, frightened child who had wakened from a nightmare only to find that the real world was far more horrifying. Severus had not shut her out, though, for after a moment, his voice emerged from behind his arms.

"I did something, Tinúviel…something after the raid that…" He trailed off and started rocking himself.

Tinúviel had never seen him in such a state, nor even anything remotely approaching it. She watched him, dumbstruck, but all the time Snape could see calculations flickering through her eyes. There were only a handful of possible actions Severus could have taken after a raid, and even fewer that could have so affected him. One was torturing a prisoner in a more horrifying way than by simply employing the Cruciatus—a privilege reserved for Voldemort; one was killing a prisoner using a nastier curse than _Avada Kedavra_—something generally reserved for Voldemort except on special occasions.

The third was raping a prisoner, something any run-of-the-mill Death Eater could do and was unofficially expected to do.

Severus had never seen Tinúviel reach her conclusion; his eyes had been shut and his face hidden. Now, however, Snape saw what he had long suspected: she knew.

She turned her head away for a moment until she could gain control of her countenance. After several deep breaths, she no longer looked sick, and it occurred to Snape suddenly that at no point had she appeared repelled by him; rather, she seemed deeply grieved.

Once she was able to mask her reaction, she turned back to face Severus, who, aside from continuing to rock himself, had not moved. Tinúviel spoke then, employing a low voice that she had used rarely enough, but which was quite common to these Penseive memories.

"Does the Dark Lord know your feelings in the matter?" she asked.

"He knows it was…not to my taste," Severus' muffled voice replied.

Snape felt ill; keeping the specifics from Tinúviel was understandable, but to employ such a pathetic understatement…His stomach roiled, as it had then, and he felt a resurgence of the loathing and self-hatred. The past could not be unmade, and now it returned as never before to haunt him.

Inexplicably, Tinúviel turned to face Snape. Her gray eyes bored through him, as though she had actually seen him there twenty years before. Rather than addressing him, though, she frowned quizzically, then turned her eyes back on Severus, her expression solidifying once more in determination.

"Severus," she said quietly, "do you remember the day after I murdered Hyacinth Evans?"

He looked up thoroughly bewildered. "How could I forget?" he countered. "Black pissed blood for a week afterward."

Tinúviel smiled sadly. "I suppose that part would be memorable," she conceded, "but I actually meant after that—when you were trying to calm me down."

He nodded, still looking confused. "I remember that, too."

"Remember what you told me?" She leaned forward in her seat for emphasis. "You said that the Dark Lord knows why we joined with him, and he knows that such things aren't our strengths. Whatever it was, Severus, I doubt he'd ask you to do it again, knowing even a bit of how it's affected you. He'd rather give the task to someone who'll enjoy it, and he knows that's not you."

"It doesn't matter if I never do it again, Tinúviel," Severus enunciated, his tone at last betraying some hint of emotion. "I still did it once." He turned to rest his chin on his knees. "There are some lengths no one should go to; this crossed that line."

Tinúviel was careful, but Snape still saw the spark of hope that leapt up in her eyes before she fully damped it down.

__

She's the only one who saw this for what it was, he thought. _Even I didn't know that this was the beginning of the end of my loyalty._ It would be two and a half years before he would take any action against Voldemort, but the thinking leading up to it had started right here.

"Are there really lines?" Tinúviel asked carefully.

At the time he had thought she was trying to reassure him; he saw now that she had instead been slowly and subtly planting seeds to subvert him.

"There are lines, Tinúviel," Severus replied. "Some see them and others don't, but I suspect that they exist."

"You only suspect?"

Severus turned burning eyes on her. "With only three days of uninterrupted thought," he answered sarcastically, "it's the best I can do at the moment. Give me another week, and I'll give you certainty."

"I'm not trying to demean you," Tinúviel told him gently. "And I'm not challenging your conclusions. I'm just trying to clarify in my own mind what it is that you're saying. The Dark Lord has said that there is no such thing as good and evil—but any teaching that doesn't stand up to questioning and scrutiny must logically be false. There's no harm in questioning. Have you ever questioned the existence of lines?"

Severus nodded. "I have. And until three days ago, I was sure that they didn't exist, or rather, that they shouldn't. Now, though…I'm not nearly so sure."

__

And that is probably the reason this memory ended up in Tinúviel's Penseive, Snape thought. _Had the Dark Lord seen it, we might both have been tortured to death._

"At least you're thinking," Tinúviel pointed out. "And when you reach a final conclusion, you'll be stronger for it."

Severus nodded hollowly. "I suppose so."

Tinúviel watched him for a long, silent minute, then narrowed her eyes in an approximation of a smile. "Care to drink to it?" she suggested. "It really is fine whiskey."

He looked sidewise at her, then slowly unfolded amid a chorus of popping joints. "We could," he replied. "I'll find another glass."

"Don't bother," she countered, before he could even move to stand. "You take the glass and I'll take the bottle."

"Are you sure that's wise?" Severus inquired.

Tinúviel arched an eloquent eyebrow. "Given that the alternative is handing the bottle over to a man who until a few minutes ago was contemplating getting drunk?"

He sighed. "All right, pour me a glass, then." He gave her a sharp look. "And I do mean a _full_ glass."

She smirked. "The best you can hope for is a double until you get some food in your stomach," she retorted. "So you drink your double, and I'll go grab a loaf of bread for you." She poured out his whiskey, then took the bottle with her into the kitchen.

ooo

The scene ended rather abruptly, and Snape had another moment in the cloud of undefined memories, followed by what seemed like hours of spy reports, to collect his thoughts. What he had seen so far forced him to reevaluate every single thing he had understood at the time, and he had no idea what to make of it all. That Tinúviel had been a spy from the very beginning had been beaten through his skull so thoroughly and so often that only a willfully ignorant person could deny it. That accounted for most of what she had deposited here: her reactions to Death Eater activities, her reports to Dumbledore, even the process of her infiltrating the Death Eaters.

Other memories were easily accounted for, as well. It made perfect sense that she would wish to keep from Voldemort any indication of Snape's doubts and potential disloyalty, to say nothing of the clear evidence present that he had defied the Dark Lord at least once.

There were other memories that appeared to have no place here, however. What could possibly be so dangerous, for example, about scenes depicting his and Tinúviel's rivalry with the Marauders? Her memory of first meeting Severus had been tucked in amid a number of the activities reports, but he was at a loss as to why. These could be of no possible interest to the Dark Lord, except, perhaps, as indicators of how deep the enmity between the two of them and Dumbledore truly was. It was to her benefit and his, therefore, to retain those memories for Voldemort to see if he so chose…and yet she hadn't.

__

There's something I'm missing, he thought over and over again, but though he examined the evidence, he could find no trace of it.

__

It will come out, he told himself firmly, completely missing a screaming match between Tinúviel and Dumbledore over some stupidity or other. _Slytherin though she was, Tinúviel was far too straightforward not to have stated it somewhere._

Tinúviel finished the report to which he had spent ten minutes being oblivious, and the headmaster's office disappeared once more.

ooo

Again his thoughts seemed to have directed the Penseive, but this time was not as precise as the last had been. He seemed to have returned to the beginning of seventh year, and for the first in a long series of scenes, Dumbledore was nowhere around.

Tinúviel sat in a quiet alcove in the Charms corridor—her favorite place to retreat to when she wanted to be entirely alone. Even Severus never disturbed her there; he knew the penalty.

Lily Evans entered the scene, however, and Snape knew, beyond any doubt, that that sacred solitude was about to be invaded, doubtless with extremely nasty consequences. Tinúviel did not look to be in the mood for trifles, and this particular brainless Gryffindor seemed capable of nothing else.

"Hello, Tinúviel," Lily said cheerily, slipping into the alcove beside her. Snape winced; this was not going to be pretty.

"There are two people alive who are allowed to call me that," Tinúviel replied coldly, not looking up from a thoroughly battered copy of _A Tale of Two Cities_. "You are neither of them, nor did I invite you here, so kindly go away."

__

She's going out of her way to be nice, Snape noted, darkly amused.

Lily, quite naturally, did not go away. "Vi, then," she amended. "I just wanted to talk to you for a few minutes."

"I see a 'Do Not Disturb' sign is in order," Tinúviel remarked, turning a page.

"You see," Lily went on, ignoring the comment, "I've just found out that your mother died."

Even Snape, a shade within the scene, sensed a significant drop in temperature, but Tinúviel managed to keep a handle on her temper; he was impressed. "Oh."

"And I thought," Lily continued, "maybe you'd want to talk to someone." Her false cheer dissipated. "And you see, I _do_ understand, because I've just lost my sister, too."

Tinúviel flushed, and Snape pitied her. There weren't many more ways in which Lily could worsen the situation—for herself or for Tinúviel.

"Meaning," said Tinúviel through her teeth, "that it's _you_ who wants to talk to someone. I suggest you go find a more sympathetic party—try Black; he's _quite_ the comforter."

And here Lily really did make a fatal mistake. "But Black doesn't need drawing out of a shell," she persisted. "You do!"

In one fluid motion Tinúviel clapped her book closed and landed a stinging slap on the other girl's cheek. "How _dare_ you!" she hissed venomously. "If I have anything to talk out, I'll talk it out with a _friend_, not with you, you sanctimonious little bitch! And as for discussing our commonalities, the talk ends here because we have none—_none_, you hear me? My mother was worth a million of your stupid Muggle sister, and if it had kept Mum alive, I'd have killed off your whole bloody family myself! Now stay the _hell_ away from me, or so help me God I'll _try_ to bring my mum back by taking out the rest of your miserable family!" She flew to her feet and stomped off.

Behind her in the alcove, Lily burst into tears. On the one hand, Snape couldn't really fault her…but on the other hand, what had she expected? She was dating the worst of the Marauders, who had all but declared war on Tinúviel; she could not reasonably have been ignorant of the antipathy there, and yet she had just behaved as if she was.

Snape shook his head as the scene faded briefly to black. There was only one way to draw Tinúviel out of her shell, and that was to keep her distracted from the fact that you _were_ drawing her out. Lily had made her bed and must lie in it.

He was rather impressed with Tinúviel, though. She had been dying to confess her deed and so in some way gain a measure of absolution, and she had just done it—without Lily having a clue that she was doing it, but all the same, it was done. He doubted Tinúviel had felt better afterward, but she'd at least given herself a shot at it, which was pretty much par for the course with her.

Rather than returning to the gray of whirling tendrils, the Penseive strung two together and pulled Snape almost immediately into another scene, which was, disappointingly enough, back in Dumbledore's office.

Tinúviel stood defiantly before the headmaster, who stood in front of his desk rather than behind it. Between the absence of a logbook and the fact that she was in her school uniform, it was clear that this confrontation was, refreshingly, entirely separate from a spy's activity report.

"You rang, Headmaster?" Tinúviel said, with a hostile sarcasm that even Snape could only manage on his very worst days.

It seemed to him that Dumbledore winced, but it was very subtle, and Tinúviel missed it completely. "I've heard a disturbing report, Miss Everett, that you have been verbally abusing one of your classmates."

Tinúviel's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Oh, really."

Dumbledore nodded. "Lily Evans—"

"Needs to fight her own bloody battles," Tinúviel snapped. "_I _learned to—I _had_ to. She can learn the same lesson." She sneered openly at the headmaster. "Unless, of course, you're content to fight for her as you never fought for Severus or me."

The headmaster paused a beat and looked intently at the girl before him. "What I have done—or not done—in the past cannot be helped now, Vi," he told her sternly. "And whatever you may choose to believe, the fact remains that I fully intend to fight for you and Severus as I am able. Unfortunately, you hurt your own case when you attack another student."

"And I don't suppose Lily Evans told you the _context_ for my so-called abuse," Tinúviel said coldly, crossing her arms.

"No, she didn't," Dumbledore conceded. "Please, tell me about it."

"Then instead of calling me in for a talking-to," Tinúviel went on as if he hadn't spoken, "you might have done better to ask for my side of the story." She raised her eyebrows. "Because even you have to admit that there's no need for this to turn nasty—provided you make up your mind based on all of the facts, instead of simply taking Evans' word for it."

And there, before Tinúviel's eyes and Snape's, Albus Dumbledore _squirmed._ The headmaster, who had long been upheld by so many as the supreme example of wisdom and moral superiority, looked as if he felt convicted by the words of a spiteful and impolite Slytherin. Tinúviel kept her features carefully impassive, but Snape knew that she must have been as shocked as he was.

After a very long, awkward silence, Dumbledore cleared his throat, closed his eyes, and nodded once. "Very well," he said, reopening his eyes. "Perhaps we ought to start over."

"Splendid idea," Tinúviel replied sardonically. "You asked to see me?"

The headmaster again cleared his throat. "Yes," he answered. He paused, obviously pondering his next words carefully. "Another student has presented a concern to me, and I was hoping to hear your perspective."

"I see."

"I believe you and Lily Evans had a…confrontation…yesterday?" Dumbledore continued, still speaking cautiously.

"Rather," Tinúviel replied. "I suppose she cried her eyes out over it?"

Dumbledore looked a touch troubled by this blasé response. "She did cry, yes," he allowed.

"I see."

There followed a long silence while Dumbledore waited for Tinúviel to go further, but she seemed quite satisfied that she had gone far enough. He cleared his throat yet again and raised inquisitive eyebrows. "Have you anything further to say in this matter, Miss Everett?"

"Rather," she said again, then stopped.

Snape furrowed his brow, at a loss to see what she hoped to accomplish. Mere moments before, she had appeared ready, willing, and able to tell her tale to the world, but now she seemed content to play what really did look like a childish game.

Dumbledore sighed. "Miss Everett, I realize that my initial response has made you defensive, and I do apologize for it, but if you're so certain that your side of the story ought to be heard, it behooves you to tell it."

Tinúviel looked stonily back at him. "Forgive me, Headmaster," she said coolly. "It simply had occurred to me that there may very well be no point in telling you what happened. Even when my situation has been known in the past, the punishment has always fallen on me, or on no one at all." She narrowed her eyes. "Even if neither party deserves disciplinary action, I've generally received it. Why should this time be any different?"

Dumbledore looked her squarely in the eye. "Please allow that even a man as old as I can change," he replied evenly. "I freely admit that I have had a blind spot where certain individuals are concerned, and I admit that I underestimated the damage done by that blindness. However, now that I've been made aware of that particular shortcoming, I would very much like the chance to rectify it."

There was another silence while they stood, eyes locked, battling will against will without words. Snape, for his part, found his mind drifting back to the disastrous situation with the Llewellyns, and he wondered how, exactly, Dumbledore would deal with that newly-revealed shortcoming. Blindness and shortcomings were permissible in any human, of course…but when a particular person was unaware of the extent of his influence, they could be devastating. First Tinúviel, then Zarekael. More than one cycle was repeating itself.

Tinúviel at last broke the silence by taking a deep breath and finally answering the initial question. "Evans had a notion that I'd be interested in group therapy," she stated. "I was sitting out of sight specifically because I wanted to be alone, and she tracked me down and wouldn't leave." Her eyes, still locked with Dumbledore's, were smoldering. "She trapped me, and no matter what I said or did, _she wouldn't fucking leave!_"

Now she slitted her eyes and glared over Dumbledore's shoulder. "She said we should talk because my mother died and I wanted pulling out from my shell, and _then_ she had the gall to say she understood what I'm going through because her sister just died!" By now she was barely holding back angry tears, and her words came out in between convulsions of her throat that resulted from a forceful suppression of sobs. She turned her gaze back on Dumbledore, no longer caring if he saw her so close to crying. "How much am I supposed to take with a smile?" she demanded. "Even though she doesn't know about Hyacinth, how _dare_ she bring up my mother! Who is Lily Evans to me, apart from a thorn in my flesh? Even _Severus_ hasn't broached the subject with me, and _he_ at least has the _right_!"

Dumbledore said nothing, so she went on. "I am _so bloody tired_ of staying calm when the Marauders provoke me. For every time I've given Black and Potter what they deserve, I've held back on three other occasions—and the same for that bloody Mary Sue Evans! They push, they prod, they provoke, and I hold my tongue, but no more, Headmaster." She set her jaw and actually brandished a fist. "When Black told me last term that he could get away with murder, I made my choice; neither he nor any of the others will ever again have that chance. If they push me, I've no problem about nobbling them—I've no intention of ending up in a body bag, least of all on account of Black. And if they so much as **_breathe_** in the direction of Severus, I will kill them."

At her mention of Black's comment on murder, Dumbledore turned a sickly shade of pale, much to Snape's grim satisfaction. Apparently, the headmaster hadn't expected the Marauders in general, or Black in particular, to receive that message in the aftermath of the so-called prank gone awry.

"I hadn't realized that things were so bad," Dumbledore murmured, more to himself than to Tinúviel.

"Would you have believed it if you had?" she countered mercilessly. "Black has always been a golden boy who could do no wrong. Would you have believed him capable of wrongdoing had you seen it—if Severus or I had told you?"

__

It's possible that he might have done, Snape reflected. _While Dumbledore isn't as all-knowing as some think him, he's also not as stupid as you apparently believe._

"I would like to think so," the headmaster told her quietly. "But frankly, I'm not entirely sure."

Snape thought he saw faint signs of Tinúviel softening somewhat, but he couldn't be certain. "Well, now you do know," she stated grimly. After a brief pause, she added, "Is there anything further required of me just now?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "No, thank you, Vi. I'll talk again with Miss Evans, and hopefully there will be a quick resolution to this latest incident."

Tinúviel curtsied gracefully, if a bit sarcastically, and showed herself out, and Snape could tell from her countenance that she thought a lasting peace and eternal harmony in Northern Ireland a more likely prospect. There could no longer be a quick resolution with the Marauders; the antipathy lay far too deep and had existed for far too long.

ooo

When the scene faded this time, Snape saw a peculiar sight above him, just beyond a thinning veil of memory tendrils. It seemed that he saw a stone ceiling, and glimpses of the tops of a chair and a bookshelf told him that it was the ceiling in his own rooms. He had never before stayed in a Penseive long enough to wade through all of the memories, but he wondered now if he had just done so.

Before he could come to a firm conclusion on his own, however, the clouds gave way once more, and he found himself in a room he had never seen before.

He had never been here, but he knew that it must be Tinúviel's bedroom; everything in it seemed to speak of her, though it most eloquently addressed a side of her that he had rarely seen.

Tinúviel stood alone in front of her dresser, on top of which were her Penseive and the picture of herself and Severus. This latter item she picked up and, crossing the room, placed on a bookshelf facing her, exactly level with the older Snape's head. Her hair was jaw-length, not shoulder-length any longer, but otherwise, she was exactly as she had been in all of the other memories. As always, she was oblivious to Snape's presence, but whether by some knack of his, or one of hers, he seemed always to be where she was looking. He had not stirred since entering the memory, but he stood not six inches away from his photographed likeness. Tinúviel returned to the dresser, then turned fully to face, not the picture, but Snape himself. He had the sudden eerie impression that she had known he would someday enter the Penseive and stand exactly there.

She confirmed this almost immediately. Using the picture's position for reference, she drifted her eyes until she had directly met Snape's. It was uncanny, given that she'd had no living person there at the time.

"Hello, Severus," she said quietly. "If you're seeing this, it means that a number of things have happened.

"First, it means that I'm dead." A hint of a sad smile touched her lips. "The Gryffindor in me hopes that it was a glorious death; the Slytherin that there was at least some point to it. However I died, the point is that I'm dead and you're not, and for that I'm thankful."

Snape's throat tightened. Given a choice, he would have preferred exactly the opposite, but as Tinúvielwould have been quick to point out, it had not been up to him.

"Secondly," she continued without pausing, "it means that, either before my death or sometime after it, you've turned your loyalties away from the Dark Lord and made Dumbledore aware of it." She smiled, almost in relief, but the expression quickly darkened. "Or you're still loyal, and Dumbledore has told you about my Penseive anyway." Her tone and countenance turned contemptuous. "In that case, I'm sure he has his reasons."

__

Undoubtedly he would, Snape thought. _Just as he undoubtedly had his reasons for _not_ telling me about it until now._

"And finally," Tinúviel said, "it means that there's no danger of the Dark Lord learning about what you see here, either because you've become a great occlumence or because you also keep a Penseive."

__

Or because he trusts me so thoroughly that he no longer sees any need for legilimency, Snape added silently. _But I doubt that knowledge would bring you much comfort, even if I could communicate it to you._

Tinúviel had paused to gaze fixedly at the place in which he now stood, as though she sought to penetrate to his very core. It was almost impossible to remember that this was the shade of a young woman who had, nearly two decades before, addressed these very words to a blank wall beside a shelf.

At last she spoke, in a low voice. "It's easy to find courage when you're not actually here, Severus," she told him. "I don't have to see your reaction or talk with you afterward…or in this case, see you afterward to know what you think of what I've said. Courage is easy, but words…really are not."

She took a deep breath, held it briefly, then slowly let it out between her teeth. "I'm not afraid to say it," she confessed, "but I _am_ afraid of how it will hit you. A part of me wants you to remember me as you knew me—however that might be. The rest of me believes that you have a right to know, if you don't already."

Some part of Snape returned to his earlier pondering and caught half a hold on a suspicion, but it was a ridiculous thought, not at all the sort of thing Tinúviel would actually say.

"I…love you, Severus," she said simply, and the bottom fell out of Snape's stomach as the complete and utter unreality of the situation hit him. He stood silent, eyes locked with the shade, and hardly dared to breathe as he waited for whatever she would say next.

She had paused again, perhaps to gather her thoughts, perhaps to allow him to gather his, but now she shook her head slightly. "Maybe I should have told you sooner, but up to this point, it's been too dangerous. Even though the Dark Lord thinks us both loyal, it would be too easy for him or one of the other Death Eaters—or the Ministry, for that matter—to exploit emotional attachment." She offered a sheepish half-smile. "And I have a feeling you have enough on your mind right now without having to deal with the knowledge that your best friend is sweet on you."

She was right. Even setting aside the fact that it would immensely complicate matters with his family, if Snape's reading of the time-frame was correct, this was either immediately before or directly after a major raid he had been responsible to plan. She had cut her hair around that time—

His brow furrowed. If it was right _after_ that raid…

He swallowed, recognizing not only her haircut but also the blouse she was wearing. It was entirely possible that he was seeing nearly the last words Tinúviel Everett had ever spoken.

"Don't mourn for me as though I'm gone forever," she told him quietly. "I don't believe I am. There's a place on the other side where we'll meet again—I'm sure of it. All I ask of you in the meantime is that you fight. Whether you do it openly or by stealth, oppose…_Voldemort_…and do everything you can to bring him down. Don't do it for me, and certainly don't do it for Dumbledore; do it because it's right. Do it for all of the promising people he's destroyed or subverted—for those he would try to destroy or subvert later on. Do it for those he's pulled in with promises that trap and enslave them." She hesitated, but her Gryffindor secondary came to the fore, and she finished with words he had known she was leading up to: "In short, Severus, do it for yourself and the others like you."

She looked as though she might continue, but there was a sudden pounding at her bedroom door. Tinúviel whirled, masking well the panic that Snape saw anyway and recognized with a sinking heart; her father was manic.

"Tinúviel Rían!" barked a hoarse voice that Snape knew well. "I want a word with you!"

"Just a minute!" she called, snatching the picture from the shelf and laying it haphazardly on her dresser. She drew her wand, and, a split-second before she spoke, Snape saw the Death Eater's mask between the picture and the Penseive.

"No!" he shouted. "Don't go!" The veil between the illusion and himself seemed to have disappeared, and his only thought in the moment was to keep her from leaving the room and going to the meaningless, grisly death that awaited her there.

As if in response, Tinúviel turned her eyes back to meet his. "Good-bye, Severus," she said softly, then touched her wand to the side of her head as he fell to his knees.

"**_No!_**"

The room went black.


	15. Betrayal

****

AUTHOR'S NOTE: So for anyone out there who was beginning to wonder if Ancalimë Erendis, who calls herself after the two biggest femenazis in Middle Earth, has any romance in her soul at all, you now know the answer. But just in case anyone was also wondering if I felt it got out of hand, I ran the previous chapter past my roommate Bet (who catches the worst stuff) and my mad collaborator Snarky (who catches everything else). Bet set most of my fears to rest, and when Snarky gave it her stamp of approval, I knew it was a winner. So no, I did not go to the doctor out of fear that too much sap was seeping through my veins and endangering my cardiovascular health.

And for anyone who's hoping for more sap in upcoming chapters…hm. One character not yet important to this tale will deal briefly with that problem during the latter half of Harry's seventh year.

Which, by my estimate, is something like forty or sixty chapters down the road. All I can say is, patience is a virtue.  
AE

PS Manymanymanymany**_many_** thanks to the truly awesome Bet, who helped me to reconstruct one of the most annoying and awkward sentences I have ever spewed forth on the typed page. This chapter is much less irritating to me on account of her assistance; couldn't have done it without ya, chica!  
AE

****

Chapter 15: Betrayal

PRESENT: EARLY OCTOBER

As much as Snape wanted the world to stop, to come to a halt as his heart seemed to have done, to pause respectfully or, better yet, to end altogether, time marched mercilessly forward. He left the Penseive late on Sunday afternoon, having flown through the weekend without food, drink, or rest of any kind, and though he felt vaguely the desperate need for sleep, he was incapable of succumbing to it.

He wandered through his quarters, little more than a hollow shell to whom emotion was simultaneously foreign and all-consuming. As long as he kept moving, what was trapped inside of him was held powerfully at bay, but if he paused at all, even for a split-second, it all welled up, rushing from the center of him outward and upward and threatening to flood out of his eyes in tears and his mouth in sobs and wails. While he paced, he could think, but stop however briefly, and he could do nothing but feel.

He walked at last to a corner cabinet, in which he kept a number of decanters and drinking vessels of various shapes and sizes.

__

Morning comes too soon, he thought darkly, _and, of course, the weekly torture of dealing with class after class of skulls full of mush. If I intend to be miserable tomorrow, I may as well go the entire way and have a hangover as well._

Liquor had never served him well as a numbing agent, for the simple reason that he placed far too high a value on clear-mindedness and self-composure. At the moment, however, he was content to be muddle-headed if it would free him, if only for a few hours, from this maddening restlessness, and as for the consequences in the morning…he could not, in the moment, scrounge up the conviction to care.

ooo

It was difficult for Snape to determine afterward who passed the subsequent week in more acute misery—himself or his students. Harry Potter, Ron and Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger, Neville Longbottom, Parvati Patil, Dean Thomas, Seamus Finnigan, and Lavendar Brown all landed nasty detentions, and Gryffindor lost nearly every point earned since the start of term. The other Houses were scarcely better off, however, and Hufflepuff, in fact, came out worse than Gryffindor. Even Slytherin was not left alone, and while Snape refused on principle to take points from his own House, he was assured by the end of Wednesday of having sparkling clean cauldrons through the beginning of Christmas holiday, thanks entirely to the compelled efforts of Slytherins. By Friday, the library had been dusted from top to bottom, front to back, and the hospital wing shone more brightly than Solomon's Temple was said to have done; the dungeons were well on their way to being entirely free of any traces of mildew and mold, and the Potions room looked like an antiseptic replica one might find in a museum, rather than a room in which actual work was done. In short, Snape's foul mood precipitated an unprecedented level of elbow-grease on the part of the student body, and none of it was in the least bit voluntary.

The weekend came, however, much to everyone's relief (except for about a dozen students who had "earned" Saturday detentions), but the freedom from dealing with students on a basis other than disciplinary proceedings was small consolation to Snape. He performed every necessary task required of him, as well as every unnecessary task that came to hand, and when he wasn't working or lying on his bed in a stupor, he was pacing through his rooms, returning now and then to his marvelous decanters.

He never looked at the box or the Penseive, though he would occasionally pull out the picture to stare numbly at it for some minutes before hiding it away again. He had shoved the whole lot into the deepest corner of his private potions-ingredient stores, which were kept in a cabinet in his quarters and to which only he and Zarekael had access.

Except when supervising unpleasant detentions, Snape was always in his rooms now, and that was where Zarekael found him Sunday evening. He had opened the drinks cabinet again and brought out a crystal brandy decanter, and from this he had already filled—twice—a crystal snifter when a familiar rap came at the door.

He crossed and opened it to admit Zarekael, but, absorbed as he was in his own thoughts, he missed the crucial clue that his son was unusually agitated. After a brief word of greeting, Snape returned to the end table on which he had placed the decanter and picked up another snifter, then looked to Zarekael, intending to offer a drink. It was only then that the state of his guest drew his attention, but he was given no time to wonder at it.

"Father, forgive me," Zarekael said without preamble. "I have betrayed you."

A cold pall fell over Snape with an inexorable, yet almost gentle, flow that forced his arm downward to set the glass on the table. Betrayal could mean only one thing: somehow, unintentionally, Zarekael had made known to Voldemort that his father was a spy.

__

I really ought to care, he thought, and at that idea something flared to life amid his apathy. His not feeling a precise will to live did not excuse whatever it was that Zarekael had done, and while he wasn't angry, per se, he wanted very much to know what had transpired and what he could expect to come of it.

"What have you done, Zarekael?" he asked quietly.

The apprentice looked rather as if he wanted to hang his head, but his honor required him to look Snape in his eye when he made his confession.

"I was going through your private stores, looking for phoenix tears," he explained in a low voice, "and my hand brushed against it. I fell into a Penseive."

The cold pall from before had been nothing to the freezing chill that swept through and around Snape now. It wasn't a betrayal of his activities that Zarekael had alluded to; it was a betrayal of his trust.

The apprentice hadn't paused for Snape to comment. "I ought to have left at once," he continued, "…but to my shame, I did not."

The Potions master reached out with his hand, searching for something solid to grip, and caught a firm hold of the decanter. "You did what?" he asked, his voice raising slightly in pitch to become dangerous.

It had taken Snape days to go through the entire Penseive; there was no way Zarekael could have done the same in less time, but logical facts were a pitiful dam before a swell of illogical emotion. Zarekael, he was certain, had seen it—seen it all—and now knew everything that Snape had wanted to keep hidden away. He had known, of course that Tinúviel had been Snape's friend—everyone knew that—but now he knew the rest of it, knew what she had meant to Snape and, far worse, what he had meant to her.

As quickly as the chill had descended, a fire raged up, billowing from his very core to blaze forth from his eyes, the only window to his soul that even he could not close. The same rush of flame erupted outward in motion, and his next clear understanding of the scene was the ear-splitting crash of crystal on stone as the decanter hit the wall just beyond Zarekael's head and exploded in a shower of shards and liquid that drenched the wall, the floor, and the apprentice.

Zarekael, having made his admission of guilt, had already lowered his eyes and now cowered as much as he could reasonably do without either slouching or kneeling. This only further enraged Snape, who turned fully to face him and advanced a few steps in his direction.

"Look at me, Zarekael," Snape ordered, but Zarekael made no response. His eyes still blazing, the father stalked across until he stood within arm's reach of him. "Look at me!" he ordered again, taking the boy by the lapels and shaking him slightly to emphasize the command.

After a second's hesitation, his son looked up with somber blue eyes, but he held his silence; the father, having accomplished his purpose, now released him with a shove.

"Did you enjoy it?" Snape demanded, and he was anything but mollified when Zarekael's gaze turned bewildered. "Did you _enjoy_ hearing a dead woman profess her love for me?" he all but screamed. "_Did you!_"

His son's eyes widened in surprise and horror. "I didn't know…!" Zarekael breathed…and Snape, seeing the genuine surprise and shock in his reaction, had a further reason to hate himself.

Whatever the boy had seen, it hadn't been that, and now Snape had let it slip. It cleared up any and all confusion on Zarekael's part as to the reason for the venom behind his father's reaction, but it also exposed Snape's deepest and most cherished wound. He was laid bare now, and he reacted in the manner of the wounded animal he had become.

"Get out!" he snarled, and when Zarekael didn't respond instantly, he gave his son a shove to help him on his way. "_Get **out!**"_ he shouted again, spinning away to take up a more threatening position. This time Zarekael moved toward the door, but not before Snape, once more in motion, reached the table and began throwing anything that came readily to hand. Zarekael needed no further urging to flee the scene, and he did so with a superhuman speed that most wizards attributed only to vampires.

Once the door was closed between Snape and the rest of the world, the screams of his soul broke forth from his mouth, creating chaotic, unearthly music to the accompanying beat of shattering glass and falling objects as he destroyed his own rooms. When he had exhausted himself throwing and shoving things, he performed one last, tired turn and fell limply into a chair, his head in his hands.

Only then, when the entirety of his energy was drained and he had none left to divert to the suppression of his grief, did he at last let out the brokenhearted sobs he had carried inside of him for the past week.

Eventually there were no tears left to him, and, completely depleted, he sank at last into the deep, dreamless sleep that only young children and utterly spent adults understand.

ooo

Between settling Aldarion Everett into his new identity and seeing to other things, Meli had been gone for over a week. She was therefore blissfully unaware, apart from a logical understanding that Snape would probably be a touch out of humor, that anything might be amiss, until her return to Hogwarts gifted her with a firsthand education on the facts of the matter.

Her first hint that something was wrong came from the students she encountered on her way to Dumbledore's office. They were more than usually skittish, particularly when Snape was about; even the Slytherins were jumpy, which alarmed Meli even more than the rest of it might ordinarily have done.

Snape provided a number of clues all by himself, even though she saw him only from a distance. It did not require either a close look or a trained eye to see that he was in a towering rage; the truth was plainly evident at a hundred feet, from which she saw clearly his blazing eyes, rigid posture, and the way that he stalked rather than walked through the corridors.

__

He must have seen something truly awful in the box or the Penseive, Meli thought, gulping as she ducked away amidst a group of scurrying Hufflepuffs. _And I _don't_ want to know what it is._

She made her report to Dumbledore, which took just long enough that she forgot all about Snape's mood, but when she left the headmaster's office, she had a nasty reminder, coupled with the unwelcome realization that whatever had so angered the Potions master, even his apprentice was not immune to the effects. She ran into Zarekael on her way to the castle's main doors, and the mere sight of him was enough to stop her in her tracks.

Again, neither proximity nor knowledge of the person was necessary to determine his mood, but unlike his father, who was dynamic in his rage, Zarekael was more than normally passive; indeed, he was every inch the epitome of a whipped puppy. He nodded meekly in greeting, but, unsurprisingly, he didn't recognize her.

"Zarekael, is it?" she said quietly as he passed, and she succeeded in causing him to pause as he realized who she probably was. "I'm Charlotte Lucas."

He managed a faint ghost of his customary near-smile. "I understand you're soon to be married to a Mr. Collins," he replied after a moment. "My congratulations."

Meli's smile was more genuine. "Thank you," she rejoined dryly. "I wonder if I might ask a question of you?"

To judge by the way in which he surreptitiously glanced about to see if anyone else was within earshot, he very likely had a good idea of what she intended to ask. "Not at all," he assured her.

Meli also unobtrusively made certain that the coast was clear, then raised her eyebrows. "I've noticed that Severus is…hm…rather out of temper, shall we say."

"Hm. Yes."

"Is there anything I can do to help?" she asked.

Zarekael made a careful study of his toes before answering. "There's nothing to be done," he told her at last. "Not by you, at least. I…stumbled over something I wasn't meant to see."

Meli felt her eyes go wide. "The Penseive," she breathed, then silently berated herself. _Good job, Ebony. If he didn't know about it before, he certainly does now, you idiot._

Before she could open her mouth again to speak, though, Zarekael nodded. "The Penseive," he confirmed.

"Oh, no."

He looked up, surprise flitting through his eyes. "You knew about it?" he inquired.

"I knew it existed," she replied. "I stumbled across it myself, though not into it." She shook her head. "I'm sorry."

Zarekael shrugged apathetically. "When he's thought it out, he'll inform me of my punishment," he stated matter-of-factly. "Until then, I'll stay out of his way."

Meli furrowed her brow. "Not everyone is retributive, Zarekael," she chided, but the words came out a bit hollower than she had hoped. Snape was not incapable of mercy, but given that this concerned Tinúviel Everett—and given that he was in a foul enough mood that his merest glance was enough to reduce a fortress to dust—he would probably not be demonstrating that fact anytime soon. She offered the apprentice a rueful half-smile. "Well," she added, "we can hope, anyway."

He looked a bit mystified at that. "I deserve whatever he gives me," he countered. "I've betrayed his trust."

They parted ways soon afterward, and Meli crossed the grounds with a heavy heart. Zarekael had recovered from Dumbledore's anger over the assassinations just in time to take another hit from the headmaster over the Llewellyns. Now, just as he was getting back to his feet after that debacle, he was kicked down again on account of the Penseive. Honor was the thing most highly valued by the apprentice, and honor was the one thing on which he suddenly could not regain his grip.

And whatever it was that Snape doled out as punishment, she knew Zarekael would accept it without question; she remembered far too clearly the dead acquiescence in his eyes when she had sought him out after he confessed to murdering the Goldens. He had been ready to take any retribution from her, possibly even to the point of death, and she could only assume that this was a similar case. His cultural understanding evidently hinged on regaining honor through punishment, and being punished by paying a demanded recompense.

It was, on the one hand, reassuring that Snape had not demanded recompense immediately; that suggested that he was waiting until he calmed down and that, therefore, the punishment would be less severe than it might otherwise have been. The downside to that, however, was that he showed no sign of calming down anytime soon, and in the meantime he had plenty of time to contemplate the punishment he would eventually assign.

Meli felt a surge of pity for Zarekael. He might have betrayed his father's trust, but she had a feeling that he would receive worse than was fair in the way of consequences.

ooo

Three days passed before Snape came up with a definite, settled plan of action—three long, hellish days of licking his wounds and pondering what payment he would exact from Zarekael for his breach of trust. Even at the end of that time he was unsure, but in the course of his dark thinking, he had come back, again and again, to the question of what his son had seen in the Penseive.

It had not required much time at all for his logical faculties, once reactivated, to inform him that, at most, the boy had only seen three or four memories; had he spent much more time in the Penseive, Snape would probably have stumbled over him. What he had seen and why he hadn't left immediately—those pieces of information must necessarily be considered before Snape could devise an appropriate punishment.

And there would have to be a punishment, as much for the father's closure as for the son's. Simple forgiveness, even if it had not been foreign to Snape, was incomprehensible to Zarekael; he was still puzzling over Meli's refusal to take retribution a year before, and he would probably always wonder if she in some way still harbored that grudge against him.

Knowing as he did Meli's peculiar obsession with the concept of grace, Snape knew the facts of the matter…but, by the same token, he also knew that Zarekael would never accept such a pass from him. A mere friend, even a close friend like Meli, could get away with it, but in Zarekael's cultural understanding, his adoptive father was obliged to be harsher and less given to forgiveness. While he might only doubt that Meli was as close a friend as she had been, if Snape attempted to let him pass without punishment, he would interpret it instead as a postponement and would be forever on his guard, waiting for his father to dredge it up again years later and demand an accounting then.

So, even if it was in Snape's nature simply to let it go (which it certainly was not), he would be duty-bound to come up with some form of penalty that Zarekael would consider appropriate.

Somewhere in his ponderings during the afternoon of the third day, however, a tiny idea managed to niggle its way to the forefront of his mind, and then, rather than politely saying its piece and then shutting up, it proceeded to gain strength, becoming louder as the afternoon wore on and finally, most disturbingly, taking on Meli's voice.

__

And suppose he only saw something harmless, it suggested. _What if the worst he saw was you and Tinúviel talking about Dickens? Perhaps he stayed for a few minutes but left before anything else came into it. Yes, he invaded your privacy, and there should be fitting consequences…but couldn't it be possible that three days of acute misery have been consequence enough for that offense?_

Snape battled the loudmouthed thought through the early evening and all of dinner, retreating at last to his rooms where he could safely glower at nothing and everything except that infuriating disembodied voice.

He had struggled for three days to come up with what it was that he wanted to do, and here, with the third day waning, he was as conflicted as he had been at the beginning. A part of him wanted to lash out again, to communicate through shouting and destruction and violent demonstration, every tortured scream and torment of his soul. His pain, buried for decades, longed to be loosed so that _someone_ would see and comprehend and _feel_ what it was that he felt.

Even he hadn't known what he felt. When Tinúviel had first died, he had been a spy, and permitting himself the luxury of dwelling on it emotionally might have cost him dearly. There had been clues, of course—even his deliberate and conscious effort couldn't prevent something from slipping out, generally at the worst time and in the worst possible way.

Snape squeezed his eyes shut, bitterly remembering.

Just over a week after Tinúviel's death, there had been a Dark Revel, and one of the Muggles killed in the midst of the revelry had nearly bled out. The similarities between his death and Tinúviel's had been too much for Snape to deal with, and, in a horrifyingly tragic twist of fate, he had accidentally resurrected the man, betraying himself for a fledgling necromancer and giving him one more reason to berate himself for being too emotional.

For he was an innately emotional person, contrary to what the pathetic students of Hogwarts might think. He'd had fifteen years to reinforce the walls around those emotions, until only his anger, which no earthly power could hope to harness or contain, was evident, but behind those walls, he was one of the most feeling people he knew.

Only Tinúviel had been more so.

That thought alone evoked more emotions than he could name in the moment, and he had the bittersweet victory, however minor, of knowing that he knew himself at least that well.

The question returned, though: What was to be done about Zarekael?

He was tired—far too tired to plot, or even to consider plotting. It was time to act, if he could only find the presence of mind to do it.

Snape consulted his watch and found that it was after the student curfew. He had no doubt that Zarekael would be in his quarters, and while he had very nearly subsided into apathy again, his Slytherin nature served him well and presented him with a simple enough way to penalize the boy, if indeed he had seen nothing of importance.

If it turned out to be otherwise…Well, he would cross that bridge when he came to it.

Snape winced as he stepped from his quarters and into the corridor. _A sure sign that I've been drinking too much,_ he thought darkly. _I despise that cliché…and now I'm planning to live by it._

ooo

Zarekael's door was thoroughly warded using spells and charms of his own people's fashioning and which even a professional Curse-Breaker like Bill Weasley wouldn't have a prayer of cutting through. There was, in fact, only one way to gain entrance to Zarekael's rooms without his invitation: the door had to be keyed to admit the person seeking entrance. To Snape's knowledge, only three people aside from the apprentice himself could open the door—Dumbledore, McGonagall (although that had been a concession for emergency purposes), and Snape himself. None of them had ever presumed upon this privilege, honoring Zarekael's privacy and security…but on this particular occasion, Snape saw fit to flout that tradition.

On entering his son's rooms, he found himself ideally situated to discomfit Zarekael greatly. The apprentice was nowhere in sight, but the fact that his main room was still lighted suggested that he had not yet gone to bed. A book lay on the coffee table, and Snape thought it highly possible that Zarekael had been reading and then stepped away to retrieve some item or for some other purpose. He would be returning shortly, the Potions master surmised, and he would find something there that he had not left—namely, his father.

Snape seated himself in one of the two wing-backed chairs beside the fireplace. From where he sat, he had an unimpeded view of the doorway to Zarekael's bedroom, which guaranteed that neither of them would miss the other when the boy returned.

It was a longish wait, but not interminable, and he estimated that perhaps ten minutes had passed from the time of his entry to the time Zarekael emerged from his bedroom. It was clear that the apprentice had just taken a shower—his shoulder-length hair was wet and newly-combed, and he was barefoot and bare-chested, wearing only a pair of black flannel pajama pants.

As planned, Zarekael saw him almost immediately and came to an abrupt halt, swallowing convulsively and bowing his head, preparatory (Snape assumed) to weathering another tirade from his angry father. He looked every inch as miserable as he had doubtless felt over the past three days, and more than that, he had to deal with the humiliation of being caught unawares and extremely vulnerable. That in itself was, oddly enough, a profound satisfaction to Snape.

After a few minutes of awful silence, during which Zarekael stewed and Snape let him, the father at last spoke to his son.

"Zarekael," he said, very softly, "come here." The boy flinched slightly but sharply checked the reaction, then, his eyes never leaving the floor, moved to stand across the coffee table from Snape. The Potions master, by contrast, had not moved except to breathe, but he shifted his left arm now and flicked his fingers toward the chair opposite him. "Sit," he ordered.

Zarekael complied, but his posture was wooden and rigid. Silence ensued again while Snape looked him over, as if trying to divine simply from the apprentice's appearance what it was that he had seen, but it was, of course, impossible; his inspection complete, he again spoke. "Tell me _exactly_ what you witnessed, Zarekael."

By the time the apprentice raised his eyes, he had hidden away his thoughts, but subtle movements in the meantime told Snape that he was surprised at the request, and given how their last conversation had ended, he really couldn't blame the boy. Zarekael met his eye now, however, and he never looked away as he described his brief journey into the Penseive.

And it had been brief, as quickly became clear. He had witnessed the entirety of one memory and a harmless portion of another before coming to his senses and leaving. He had stumbled across it innocently, tumbling into the Potions classroom at a very different point in time to witness the confrontation the day after Black had nearly murdered Severus. That had transitioned directly into Tinúviel's violent tantrum, and while Zarekael managed to keep a penitent countenance through most of his narration, here his eyes flashed with a strange malicious joy as he described the thorough nobbling Black had received for pushing Tinúviel too far.

He sobered when he came to Flitwick's entrance on the scene, and Snape braced himself for what must surely come next—but Zarekael instead shook his head slightly. "That is all I saw, _Dravek-üriov,_" he finished, still looking his father directly in the eye, even as he invoked Snape's title of authority.

"Why didn't you leave immediately?" Snape asked tonelessly. He was surprised at how flat the words sounded, given that they comprised one of the most insistent questions that had been boring away at him lately.

Zarekael paused long enough to choose his words but not long enough to be perceived as hesitant. "My curiosity got the better of me," he admitted quietly, to Snape's further surprise; he forgot sometimes how young his son was and that he was, by nature, incredibly curious. "Seeing you as a young man," Zarekael continued. "Seeing some of what made you into the man I know—" He broke off as words failed him, then shook his head in frustration. "I have no excuse, sir, save curiosity; I was fascinated." His repentant tone was marred somewhat by the self-satisfied expression his face now took on. "Though, in all honesty," he added, "I must admit that I will _cherish_ witnessing Black's thrashing." Again he sobered. "There is nothing for me to say, except that I'm ashamed that I did not leave earlier—and your anger toward me is justified."

Snape made no immediate reply, so Zarekael bowed his head to await judgment, a thin sheet of perspiration appearing on his shoulders and chest.

His father, meanwhile, returned to his earlier pondering and attempted to synthesize into it the information he had just obtained. He knew, without a doubt, that Zarekael would never lie to him about what he had seen; no matter what the consequences, honor demanded complete and unreserved honesty—which was why he had confessed to Snape in the first place what he knew could never be discovered.

Zarekael's motives had been innocent, and so, for the most part, had been his actions. As Snape himself had thought idly at the beginning of their interview, the humiliation of their meeting tonight was probably sufficient payment for the offense, and anything further, while expected, was unnecessary.

Snape stood without a word and turned toward the door as Zarekael stood, as well. He walked as far as the short corridor leading to the door, then paused. "Adrikbradwr," he said, turning back to face his son.

He found Zarekael staring at him, his face slack and pale and his eyes haunted by an utterly lost expression as he waited for the pronouncement of his doom. _Something in my tone must have upset him_, Snape reasoned, so he began again, keeping his voice quiet and firm. "Zarekael, there will be no punishment," he stated, and Zarekael's expression became one of disbelief; unless he explained himself now, the boy would be waiting for him to make a later demand for penance. He regarded Zarekael thoughtfully. "There was no malice in your actions," he continued, "and you confessed them to me. I'm satisfied that this was nothing more than an unhealthy curiosity." He allowed his eyes to harden and his tone to frost a bit, then added, "Though I _trust_ that nothing of this nature will _ever_ happen again."

Zarekael shook his head, his eyes shining as he fought tears—_of relief?_ Snape wondered._ Or fear that I'll change my mind?_

"No, sir," the boy replied, his voice sounding oddly strangled with restrained emotion. "It will not."

__

Of relief, Snape answered silently; he recognized that tone of voice all too well. He nodded once in acknowledgment, then turned again to the door and went on his way.

ooo

****

FURTHER AUTHOR'S NOTE:

And just in case the amateur philologists are still around…  
Adrikbradwr- AH-drihk-brah-DOOHR  
Dravek-üriov- drah-VEHK-OOH-ree-ohv

Also, Krew- Not-nice things involving Snape, Voldemort, and necromancy…Hm. Yes.

Omaha Werewolf- Excellent deduction as to whose footprint is most pronounced in Chapter 14. This was one sequence that was meant to be a brief side note in the main story—a chapter or two at most—and then it just took off one day and blossomed into the extremely huge side story it is now. I didn't have either the time or the need to work out the scenes with Snarky because they literally exploded in my face and all over my notebook (It was rather messy). Your review made me curious, so I ran a count; it came back at 13,259 words, or 47 pages in html format. (Just FYI)  
As for Lupin…  
Snarky and I have talked several times about why Snape might hate Lupin so much, when Book 5 showed that James and Sirius were the primary offenders and Pettigrew was at least along for the ride. We've concluded that Lupin's offense was not that he knocked Snape down or kicked him while he was down, but rather that he stood by and did nothing while others were tormenting Snape. That being the case, it wasn't necessarily essential to have Lupin directly involved, and in any case, most of the incidents spelled out in the narrative had the fight being started by someone walking up to one of our two heroes. Since Lupin probably did little, if any, initiating of the conflict, he wouldn't have been in any of these scenes, except possibly as a figure standing off to the side. Since Snape's primary focus while in the Pensieve was on Tinúviel and himself, Lupin may very well have been there and simply wasn't noticed.  
Not very flattering to the estimable and very cool werewolf…but true nonetheless.  
Lily, on the other hand, is portrayed here almost entirely from Tinúviel's perspective, and Tinúviel, who hated the Marauders and anything/one in any way involved with the Marauders, was predisposed to have a dim view of her. Snape's view wasn't much better, for similar reasons. The Pensieve also doesn't contain very much about Lily, so she's likely to come across skewed because there's only one episode to establish her character. My thought on Lily was that she was trying to be helpful and misinterpreted certain warning signs. Snape saw the signs for what they were because he actually _knew_ Tinúviel, but Lily, who didn't know her much at all, hadn't a clue that she was on thin ice and so was completely surprised when she fell through and found herself drenched. In the context of our two heroes' prejudices, she comes across as vapid, but I think she really was just misguided.

Wow, that was a _much_ longer A/N than I meant to put in. I hope it answers your questions/concerns, though, and I thank you for your reviews!

AE


	16. Cut Adrift

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AUTHOR'S NOTE: Time for another warning, just in case there are any fainthearted individuals left out there who are still reading this fic. I am one of those horrible, nasty people who does _not_ believe that the sun rises and sets on Harry Potter. In fact, he really pissed me off in Book 5. Snarky and I have gone easy on him in these stories because our extra-canonical Harry is, of necessity, not as big of a moronic jerk as the canonical one (our actual term for him will not appear anywhere in this story or the author notes, just in case someone not old enough for the M-rating slipped in under the rope). That said, however, please keep in mind that this fanfic is told from the perspectives of Severus Snape and his close friends. If you think Meli's being too hard on Harry and too easy on a certain other person shortly to appear on the scene, remember that, grateful though she is to him for giving her some reprieve from her seizures back in the day, he is still capable of getting on her nerves, and she sees a lot more clearly from Snape's point of view than from Harry's.

She also is one of those pitiable individuals who sees fit, when proven wrong, to go a little too far sometimes in trying to make up for having been wrong in the first place. Just a little psychological insight to set the mood for ya.  
AE

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Chapter 16: Cut Adrift

PRESENT: 31 OCTOBER

Meli's work as Rasa kept her rather busy on a day-to-day basis, and that was as she liked it. She was never bored, what with showing up suddenly on people's doorsteps, dashing off to Hogwarts to give activity reports, and disappearing anyone the Order considered to be in danger, and the only time she required for herself was an occasional couple of hours here and there to read or to stare contemplatively at a wall. She found adequate time for both of these activities, and on a particularly quiet day, she found herself in want of a familiar and so spent the afternoon tracking one down.

Alfred got on quite well with the garter snake, whom she had dubbed Suspender, and he knew Meli herself well enough by now to ask, with a wicked gleam in his eye, if Suspender's predecessor had, in fact, been a bull snake named John. Meli had refrained from answering, knowing as she did that the house elf would probably know as much about Monty Python as Ron Weasley had done and not wanting a conversation that would remind her—again—of the events surrounding Collum Fell's death.

She had, in fact, gotten so caught up in her work that she'd lost all sense of time and had trouble remembering the day of the week, much less the particular date. She had a vague notion that the end of October was approaching, but beyond that she had no concept of time, so Halloween caught her completely off-guard.

It was fortunate that she was in that evening, for her late-night visitor was one who would not have reacted well at all to Alfred as a caretaker. This particular person wasn't the sort to react well to anyone under the circumstances, but the presence of another human, as opposed to any kind of magical creature, was almost therapeutic for him in its way.

Meli had rigged an alarm to sound whenever someone portkeyed into Snape Manor. The only portkeys that allowed access to the house at any time were the escape rings used by Order members and certain others that wanted protection, and they brought their wearers directly to the parlor Meli had set up in what had once been the dungeon guards' room. The alarm sounded just before one in the morning, and she rushed to this parlor to find one of the last people she wanted to see—not for any flaw in him but because of what his appearance must necessarily mean.

There in her parlor, white as a sheet and shivering with reaction, stood Dudley Dursley. He hardly seemed to notice her entrance, but his surroundings seemed to have further unnerved him; he stared at the torches, at the dark furniture, at the garter snake coiled in the corner. Suspender, to his credit, was going to great lengths to stay out of sight and not to make any sudden movements, threatening or otherwise.

Meli ducked out of the parlor to summon Alfred. The house elf appeared with a bow, then took a posture of patient listening while he awaited his instructions.

"Bring a tea tray," Meli told him quietly. "Black tea—the stronger the better—and a pot of chamomile, too. Two cups. Then send an owl with a coded message to Dumbledore. Tell him the Dursleys have been taken, but Dudley is here at the Bat Cave."

Alfred bowed again, then disappeared to carry out her orders. Meli returned to the parlor to find that Dudley hadn't budged. Again, he gave no indication that he had noticed her entrance.

"Dudley?" she said softly, crossing to him. She caught his hand and tried to lead him to a chair, but his bulk would not move without his voluntary effort, and he was making none. "Dudley, it's all right. You're safe now. Come on, I need you to sit before you drop."

For a full minute he did not move, even to blink, then he slowly turned his head and rested his eyes on her face. She smiled as encouragingly as she could, and, in that warmth, it seemed that he unfroze, at least enough to follow her when she led him to the nearest chair, a black-upholstered winged-back. He mechanically sat, and Meli knelt before him and looked him full in the face.

"Dudley, what's happened?" she asked. "Where are your parents?" _Please, let it be a mistake somehow,_ she silently begged. _Not when her ring was so close to ready!_

Dumbledore had owled her only two days ago, telling her that Petunia's ring would be ready for delivery in a week. Five days—only five days left! It couldn't have happened now, not when Petunia was so close to being safe—!

He turned solemn, dead eyes on her. "With _them_," he whispered, and the last of her faint hopes died. "They came—all black, with masks—" He broke off, shuddering.

Meli swallowed and barely suppressed the irrational urge to hug him. She'd known, of course, the likely scenario, but knowing it for the final truth was far different. She might before have disliked the bully Dudley, but she pitied this pale, terrified creature in front of her. She had been bereaved of her parents, as well, but the Staffords had been practical strangers in comparison; Dudley had known and loved his parents his entire life.

There was a subdued clattering behind Dudley, and Meli looked to the side in time to see Alfred tiptoeing out of the room. The house elf caught her eye and pointed exaggeratedly at the tea table, then crept silently away.

Meli looked back to Dudley, who eyed her fearfully. She forced another smile for him. "Forgive me," she said. "I've forgotten my manners. My name is Lucy Honeychurch; I'm a friend of Bella Rokesmith and Ivan Gregoriyan, whom I believe you've met. You can call me either Lucy or Rasa."

Dudley managed something like a nod. Meli stood and stepped to the table, where she poured a cup of chamomile for Dudley and a cup of industrial-strength Earl Grey for herself. She handed the frozen Muggle his tea, and he mechanically accepted it and took a sip. The drink revived him a bit more, enough to take another sip and look down at his hands.

For her part, Meli took her cup all in one draft, then paced to the fireplace, keeping Dudley always in her view. She had no idea how he might behave as his shock wore off, and the pragmatist in her thought it best to be prepared for anything. As things stood now, however, the sooner he revived, the better. Snape Manor was hidden and well-defended, of course, but she had to get him out of the Bat Cave as soon as possible, and he would have to be disappeared immediately. For the moment, at least, she could take him to Hogwarts, but he could not long remain there, either. He needed a real home, and he needed to be well away from the students in general and from Harry Potter in particular.

"Oh, God," she groaned, covering her face with her hand. Harry would have to be told.

That thought triggered another in close succession: Harry could no longer spend holidays with the Dursleys, and the next most logical place would be the Weasleys' home, where he had no blood relations. While Dudley and Harry didn't see eye to eye—to say the very least—Meli shied away from the thought of separating them; each was now the only family the other had. Dudley might now find himself in need of the protection of near blood, and Harry's need for it could only be increased by his aunt and uncle's deaths; it was vital that the two remain together.

Setting Harry entirely aside for the moment, though, the Weasleys were among the best candidates for Dudley's foster parents. Molly, in particular, seemed the ideal type of comforting mother that he required just now, and he need have no fear of anyone bothering him—Molly's reputation as a fierce mama-bear was well-established. He needed a home and a family, and he needed psychological protection; Meli could think of now better source for any of it.

Now if she could only convince the _Weasleys_ of that…

Well, that was where Dumbledore came in.

"Where am I?"

Meli jumped, startled, then turned to face Dudley fully. "You're in a parlor at my home," she replied. "There's no official name for it, but we call it the Bat Cave." She smiled wryly, then added, "But don't worry about bats—there aren't any; it's just a nickname."

Dudley relaxed slightly. "And your name is Lucy?"

She nodded. "For the moment."

"This isn't…Harry's school?"

"No." Meli cleared her throat. "Though we _will_ be going to Hogwarts shortly. You'll be safer there until we find a better place for you to stay."

"What kind of place?" Dudley asked suspiciously, a slight darkening in his features turning his face into a sudden replica of his father's.

Meli didn't so much as blink. "A place more like a home than a bolt-hole," she answered. "A house, rather than an apartment in a castle where you'd have to stay out of sight. In short, a place that feels both safe and more or less normal." She smiled benignly. "We don't treat Muggles any differently from wizards."

Dudley's expression turned inward, and it suddenly occurred to Meli that he was weighing and considering her words, engaging in precisely the kind of critical thinking of which she had thought him entirely incapable when she had been his teacher. She had always thought of him as a thick, mean thug, and he had never done anything to prove her wrong—

__

Or perhaps he did, and I wasn't watching.

Her mind returned to the conversation she'd had with her colleagues in Surrey the night of Voldemort's return, and she realized now, to her shame, that she was guilty of the same kind of judgment with Dudley that Don and Jim had been guilty of with Harry. She flushed, but there was no way she could apologize now, not without blowing her cover.

"I've nothing to lose at this point, have I?" Dudley said at last, breaking into her thoughts. "At worst, you'll turn out to be one of them, and I'll be no worse off than…" He trailed off, clenching his jaw to stave off a trembling lip. He cleared his throat and continued firmly. "But at the best, I can trust you, and I'll turn out better off in the end."

Meli bit her lip, feeling again the stab of conscience at his eloquence. Perhaps he had been an underachiever, but he certainly was no fool. "You're far wiser than I am, Dudley Dursley," she said softly, almost meekly. "And it may puzzle you, but I'm honored and humbled by your trust. I…didn't think you would agree, and I beg your pardon for thinking so little of you."

Dudley stared at her in open wonder. "Do I know you?" he asked abruptly.

She smiled. "Not really," she replied. "But that may change; I'm your guardian for now, so you'll be seeing a lot of me." She cocked her head inquisitively. "Why? Do I seem familiar?"

He shook his head, as if to clear it. "You did for a minute," he conceded. "But it's gone now."

"Believe it or not, I've heard that before," Meli informed him dryly. "I rarely wear the same face twice, so people often meet me for the first time a few times."

Dudley raised his eyebrows. "You're a good one for riddles, you are," he declared.

"In more ways than one," she rejoined sardonically, a sour taste filling her mouth in the wake of that dark pun. She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. "It's time we went."

"How far is it?" Dudley asked.

Meli smirked. "No further than that fireplace," she replied.

ooo

Dudley was an astute learner when he had a teacher who didn't consider him a blithering idiot; it required only one demonstration of floo powder for him to understand its proper use and application. That he was using a magical substance was not lost on him, and he seemed simultaneously terrified and fascinated by it. He asked several times if Harry had ever used floo powder, and Meli had the sobering epiphany that Dudley actually felt somehow inferior to his wizard cousin. She told him truthfully that Harry had probably used it at least once but that he, Dudley, had learned far faster than many wizards and witches did—herself included. This revelation seemed to encourage the unfortunate boy, and she did not begrudge him any earned praise; it was the least she could do after her prior verbal abuse of him, and it might be a ray of sunshine in what had suddenly become a dark life.

Once Dudley had a good grasp of floo powder, they stepped through to Dumbledore's office, Dudley going first. Meli arrived a few seconds behind him to find that Dumbledore was ready for them. The headmaster had set up a table with tea and scones, and Meli caught the scent of chocolate somewhere nearby.

__

Not surprising, really; he has no way of knowing if Dudley had a brush with one of Voldemort's pet Dementors.

A cold shudder ran through her, and she shook the thought away.

"Dudley," she said, smiling to cover up her brief chill, "this is Professor Albus Dumbledore. Professor, I'd like you to meet Dudley Dursley."

Dumbledore beamed at him. "Dudley, it's an honor and a pleasure to meet you," he said. His eyes flicked to Meli. "Rasa, welcome back. What might your name be today?"

Meli smirked. "It's Lucy Honeychurch at the moment," she told him.

Dumbledore looked confidingly to Dudley. "Has Rasa explained to you her many names and faces?" he asked.

"Sort of," Dudley replied, showing mild amusement. "It's really true, though? I thought she was exaggerating."

"It has been known to happen," Meli allowed. "But not on this particular occasion."

Dumbledore looked downward, and his eye fixed on Dudley's phoenix ring; he sobered. "That ring's makers will be glad to know that you were wearing it," he said gravely. "I certainly am."

Dudley, too, sobered. "Fat lot of good it did my parents, though." There was no bitterness in the comment, but his regret and anguish were palpable. "They're dead…aren't they."

Meli caught Dumbledore's eye and swallowed. It would be cruel to lie, but there seemed to be no gentle way to confirm the boy's words.

"You don't have to worry about me bursting into tears if you say yes," Dudley mumbled. "I know it's probably true."

"It's true," Meli told him quietly.

He nodded, and by the time his head was still again, he seemed twice his own age. "Dad wouldn't take a ring," he stated hollowly. "He wouldn't let Mum or me have one, either. The only reason I'm alive right now is I'm a rotten thief." He stared at the phoenix on his finger. "That Russian fellow, though—he didn't care how I'd got it, just that I had it. I don't deserve it." He slid the ring off and held it out to Dumbledore. "I don't deserve to be alive."

Dumbledore made no move to accept it. "Do any of us deserve to be alive, Dudley?" he countered. "I certainly don't."

"The ring is yours, Dudley," Meli told him firmly. "It was freely given."

"I don't deserve it," he repeated stubbornly.

"No one deserves grace," Meli replied. "That's why it's grace. Your life matters to us more than a past offense ever will."

"_Why_ does it matter to you?" Dudley persisted. "Harry's life, sure—he's a hero to you! But why me? I'm just a thick-headed, dull-witted pig who doesn't know is left hand from his right foot, _and _I'm a Muggle on top of it all! What's so great about me?"

Meli closed her eyes. She knew he had no specific memory of hearing her say most of those things about or to him—Sirius Black had seen to that when he took the liberty of partially obliviating the Dursleys a year before—but the words had remained with him nevertheless. She was probably not the only one to have called him such things, but that didn't excuse her in the least. She took a deep breath and opened her eyes again, the stubborn, justice-loving Gryffindor lion rearing up within her. "A thick-headed dull-witted pig wouldn't have had the sense to activate his ring," she pointed out. "And someone who doesn't know his left hand from his right foot would hardly have been able to weigh his options and choose to trust a person he doesn't know." She raised her eyebrows. "And as for you being a Muggle, why would I care about that? My family and some of my closest friends are Muggles. I don't find them any less worthwhile as people." She looked sharply at him. "And on both points, I seem to recall that you picked up the proper procedure for using floo powder faster than many wizards do—which shows you to be neither stupid nor inferior. You're as much worth saving as Professor Dumbledore is."

Her words didn't exactly breathe new life into Dudley, but he was subdued, at least for the moment.

Seeing that he was temporarily mollified, Meli turned to Dumbledore, who was regarding her thoughtfully. "He can't stay here, of course," she said in an undertone. "Not for long, anyway. Do you think he could stay with Arthur and Molly?"

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "I believe that would be ideal," he answered. "We don't want him outside of the Order's protection, but I doubt Dudley would very much appreciate being under heavy guard—would you, Dudley?"

The Muggle boy shook his head. "Not if I can avoid it," he replied. "But if you don't mind my asking, who are Arthur and Molly?"

Meli looked to the headmaster and raised her eyebrows, unequivocally yielding the floor to him. Dumbledore gave her a thin smile, then met Dudley's questioning gaze. "Arthur and Molly Weasley," he explained, "are the parents of several students past and present. I believe you may have met Mr. Weasley and his youngest sons—Ron, and the twins Fred and George."

To judge by the look on Dudley's face, he had indeed met them, and he harbored no happy memories of the occasion; this was not an auspicious beginning.

"I see you've experienced the joy of knowing the twins," Meli remarked sardonically.

Dudley wrinkled his nose in distaste. "They dropped a piece of candy that made my tongue swell 'til it was bigger than the rest of me," he told them through his teeth. "Not the best thing I've ever had happen to me. And Ron's a pal of Harry's, which means he probably hates me."

"Ron and Ginny are both reasonable people," Meli assured him, hoping she was right. "And they're the only ones still living at home—well, except for Percy," she added, smothering a pained look. "He tends to get on _everyone's_ nerves, but fortunately, he practically lives at the office, so you'll see little enough of _him._ The rest you'll see only over the holidays, and Molly Weasley is more than able to keep the twins on a tight rein—and, in fact, she does it quite readily. You'll have little enough to fear from them."

Dudley hesitated a bit before his next question, but he at last managed to force it out. "Will…Harry be there, too?"

Meli fell silent, and Dumbledore looked measuringly at him for a long moment. "Harry will now be spending his holidays either at Hogwarts or with friends," he answered. "In all likelihood, that means that he will be staying with the Weasleys."

The boy's face was more expressive than Meli had ever thought it could be. Perhaps she had never noticed it, or perhaps he was too weakened by the evening's events to conceal his thoughts and emotions; in any case, she could read him like a book at the moment. Even when he had been the apple of his parents' eye and Harry was the despised invader, Dudley had felt that he stood in his cousin's shadow, and now, when life had turned upside-down, there was no chance of escaping that long, magical shadow. And this time he would be without his parents' shallow, effusive approval—the only type of affirmation he'd probably ever had. Added to that, even more unfortunately, was the very real possibility that Harry might take advantage of circumstances and turn the tables on Dudley, becoming a bully himself.

No, she couldn't blame the boy for not wanting to subject himself to that.

She looked again to Dumbledore, who had plainly read the same information she had. He knew, however, just as she did, the vital importance of keeping the boys together. It was necessary for Harry's protection, and where Dudley was concerned, there truly was no better place for him to go than to the Weasleys.

__

At the moment, I really couldn't care less about Harry Potter, Meli thought peevishly. _If it comes down to it, I'll support keeping him at Hogwarts forever if that's the only way Dudley can live with the Weasleys. It's about bloody time the Boy Who Lived had someone else's needs take precedence—he's as spoiled by wizards as Dudley was by his parents._

"Would the Weasleys see me as—as Harry's awful cousin, or would they just see…Dudley?" he all but blurted out. "I'm a person. I want to be seen as a separate person, not Vernon's son or Harry's cousin or…or whatever else." He looked down. "Even though I suppose I deserve it if they hate me."

He was a behavioral manipulator, not an emotional one, Meli knew; his present forlornness, as pathetic as it was, was not feigned. "Molly and Arthur will think well of you if you give them reason for it," she told him. "And they won't think poorly of you unless you give them ample reason for _that_." That much, at least, she could promise with certainty. She glanced at Dumbledore, who nodded his confirmation.

Dudley's eyes fixed on the ground in front of him, and he was silent for several minutes. The others said nothing, understanding that the time for words had passed for the moment; it was up to Dudley to convince himself.

At last he looked up, and Meli irrationally took heart in the fact that he met her eye without hesitation. "I want to meet them before I decide for sure," he said. "But…if they're like you say…I'll stay with them." A new thought shot a flicker through his eyes. "Will I be going back to Smeltings?" he asked, his voice suddenly oddly neutral.

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Unfortunately, it would be unwise at this time," he answered carefully. "You would be too easily found and attacked there. You will, however, be able to attend another school as soon as your enrollment can be arranged."

The boy's face had become a perfect mask; he appeared neither pleased nor upset by the news, and Meli wondered what was truly going on in his mind. "That's all right, I suppose," he said, sounding thoroughly unconcerned. "What sort of school would it be?"

Meli glanced at Dumbledore and raised an interrogatory eyebrow. The boy _was_ a Muggle; he couldn't very well attend Hogwarts, even if it had been a good idea. She also couldn't help wondering what Dumbledore made of Dudley's lack of emotion on the topic.

The headmaster, true to form, kept all indication of his thoughts to himself. "The easiest school to enroll you in at this time would be Caliban," he answered. "It's near enough to where you'll be living that you need not be a boarder, and once they are made aware of your circumstances—those that are safe to make known, of course," he added, with a reassuring look to Dudley, "the administrators will be glad to have you start there immediately."

"And just how much will they know?" Dudley asked, sounding cautious once more.

Here Dumbledore looked to Meli, who shrugged. "They'll know your assumed name, that you're under our protection, and that you've been raised by Muggles. And the only reason they'll need to know that last part is that some of the things the other students take for granted may surprise you at first."

"So it's a magical school?" Dudley inquired, a note of interest sounding in his voice.

"Yes and no," she replied. "It's a squib school. Squibs are people born into magical families who can't do magic; for whatever reason, they simply don't have the ability. Because of their heritage, they know about magic and use some magical devices, but in all other respects, they're like Muggles."

Dudley's expression turned unreadable again, but he didn't seem displeased with what he was hearing. "And…would they know…?"

"No one has to know that you're in any way related to Harry Potter," Dumbledore told him gently. "The Weasleys know because they've met you, but beyond them, no one else will know unless you choose to tell them." He offered Dudley a smile. "No one should have to live in another's shadow, least of all you, and Rasa and I have no intention of tying you to such a shadow—nor will Arthur and Molly."

ooo

From Dumbledore's office, Meli led Dudley through a number of secret passages to an unused corridor near Ravenclaw, where Tippy had prepared one of the guest rooms for habitation. There they found a fire crackling in the fireplace, a fresh set of pajamas across the foot of the bed, and a cup of hot cocoa on the bedside table, all awaiting the Muggle boy.

"These are your rooms until you go to the Weasleys' home," Meli told him. "You probably won't be here above a day or two, but in the meantime, the house elves will take care of your meals and laundry—oh." She smiled tightly. "I should probably explain about house elves."

Dudley was looking a tad overwhelmed. "House elves?" he echoed faintly.

Meli offered him a reassuring look; the events of the night were beginning to catch up to him. "House elves," she explained, "are magical creatures who thrive on serving. There's a great deal more to it than that, but it's not important at the moment. For now, suffice it to say that they have poor grammar, but they're eager to please, so you needn't worry about cleaning up." She gave him a knowing look. "Just…don't go about making unnecessary messes—it makes them feel they've wasted their time, and there's very little as disagreeable as a disgruntled house elf."

The boy managed a smile. "Right, then."

"Would you like to meet a house elf?"

He looked surprised. "Now?"

Meli shrugged. "Sure. It won't take long—it's only an exchange of names."

"All right."

Meli summoned Tippy, who was thrilled to meet her for the first time again, and who was extremely fascinated by Dudley.

"Is it true, is it, that Muggles isn't learning Potions and Charms?" he asked, regarding Dudley with wonder-filled eyes.

The boy nodded, nonplused, but he proved himself quite capable of carrying a conversation. "Is it true that you actually _like_ cleaning?" he inquired, furrowing his brow.

"Oh, _yes_, sir!" Tippy answered energetically. "Tippy is loving to neaten, to straighten, and even to _dust_!"

Dudley shook his head while Meli bit her lips to keep from laughing. "My mum would have loved you," he said.

Tippy was so delighted by this statement that he missed what Meli caught: Dudley's countenance darkened, and he suddenly looked very weary.

"Well, now that you've met," she said quickly, "I think it's time you were left alone to rest, Dudley. You look like you could use a good twelve hours' undisturbed sleep."

Indeed he was no idiot; he plainly realized what she was about, and he did not look inclined to argue. "It was nice meeting you, Tippy," he told the house elf quietly. "S'pose I'll see you later."

Tippy favored the boy with his broadest grin, then disappeared again.

"Do you need anything further just now?" Meli asked. "If not, I'll leave you to your rest."

Dudley shook his head. "You've done so much already," he answered. "I'm better off than I would ever have expected."

She smiled. "Well, if you need anything, even just to send a message, call Tippy."

"All right." The adrenaline had worn off, and now his exhaustion had caught up to him. As Meli watched, he drifted toward the bed, evidently in hopes of making it there before he fell over. "'Night."

She waited until she was sure he'd made it, then slipped out and returned the way she'd come. There were a number of things left to work out with Dumbledore before she could seriously entertain any thought of sleep.


	17. Pieces

**Chapter 17: Pieces**

Meli hadn't thought it unreasonable to expect not to run into anyone on her way back to Dumbledore's office, but the day had plenty of surprises yet to toss at her. Coming around the corner near her destination, she was frozen in her tracks at the sight of not one but three people abroad—and they formed the unlikeliest group she could ever have thought of.

_Either Hell has frozen over,_ she thought in numb shock, _or something further has gone catastrophically wrong._

There before her, walking side by side, where Severus Snape, Remus Lupin…and Padfoot the dog. To judge by Lupin's expression, her latter suspicion was the more likely of the two, and to go by Snape's, that was just the tip of the iceberg. She had no trouble believing that much, at least, given that Sirius Black was known by the Order to be on assignment elsewhere. Either he had returned early or he had never left, in which case he had probably remained at Hogwarts on some sort of snooping duty; in either case, it was plain that he was not meant to be recognized, since he was in his animal form.

"Good morning, sirs," she said casually. "Out for an early constitutional, I see—and you've even brought your poodle with you."

Snape had by now figured out who she was, and Lupin might have done; Padfoot was a harder read, but it was clear that he didn't much like her. She smiled sweetly at his growl, then continued, "Nasty, useless things, in my opinion, except perhaps as toilet scrubbers."

Lupin looked mildly at her. "I don't believe we've been introduced, Miss…?"

"Honeychurch," Meli answered. "Lucy Honeychurch."

Snape arched an eyebrow. "On your way to ask Professor Dumbledore for a room with a view?" he suggested sardonically.

"Something of that nature," Meli allowed with a smirk.

Lupin blinked, then looked impressed. "I don't know that I would have caught that allusion," he said approvingly.

Snape smirked slightly, but a dark tension around his eyes kept it from lightening his countenance. "Benefits of a classical education," he replied in clipped tones.

Lupin returned his attention to Meli and offered her a slight smile. "I think, Miss Honeychurch, that you'd be surprised at how useful a dog, whatever its breed, may prove to be."

Meli narrowed her eyes, then slid them over to the still-growling Padfoot. "No doubt," she said in return. "But it hardly requires an expert's eye to distinguish a helpful canine from a surly, useless cur." She arched an insulting eyebrow. "And I suppose even a cotton-headed poodle can understand my meaning."

Padfoot's eyes flashed menacingly; Lupin, by contrast, shrugged. Snape, for his part, smirked in approbation, even while his eyes warned her not to overstep. She gave him a reptilian look in return, then again addressed Lupin.

"I'd a friend once who had such a dog," she said ruminatively. "He was utterly useless and savagely vicious, but we chose to overlook it because he only growled at the people we disliked." She smiled coldly. "We ought instead to have told him to destroy the thing, but no one was more surprised than I when that brute turned on him and swallowed him whole, then tore the rest of us to pieces one by one. Even I only barely escaped." She raised her eyebrows slightly. "Beware of dogs, Professor Lupin—particularly those who are given to violent fits of irrational temper."

Padfoot seethed, but, given his present situation and the lateness of the morning hour, he could not risk transforming to rebut her. Had he known that she was comparing him to Dirk Pierce, an outright traitor to the cause, he might very well have done so anyway.

Meli smiled sweetly at Padfoot, then at Lupin, and offered a friendly smirk to Snape. "And now, gentlemen, I hope you'll excuse me, but there _is_ the matter of the view from my casement to be settled."

"A view of the courtyard rather than of the lake?" Snape hedged, the words edged by a snicker.

"The thestral stables rather than the quidditch pitch," Meli countered, wrinkling her nose. "Have you any idea how awful thestral manure smells?"

Snape nodded sagely, and Lupin went green.

"Well," she said, with a long-suffering sigh, "I suppose it's best dealt with now rather than later." She stepped past them on Padfoot's side, and, taking advantage of the dog's having sat down to growl, planted her heel squarely on his tail and ground it down, eliciting a sharp bark of pain from the animagus.

"Cheerio!" she called cheerfully over her shoulder, then rounded the last corner between herself and the statue guarding Dumbledore's office.

ooo

It required only half an hour further to lay plans with Dumbledore, after which Meli left for her room, in hopes of squeezing in two hours of badly needed sleep.

En route from the headmaster's office, she crossed the gallery just inside the main doors to the castle, and she might have gone on her way without pausing at all had not something odd caught her eye. There on the floor, laying in just such a way as to be visible because it was far too regular against the irregularity of the stone, was a black button.

Meli knelt, frowning, to pick it up. It was a round-topped button, covered in black cloth that she judged by its feel to be of high quality. Cloth-covered buttons were odd enough at Hogwarts, since most of the students and faculty preferred metal, plastic, or wood, and black cloth-covered buttons were even rarer. Only two people came immediately to mind who would probably have lost such a button, and both were fastidious enough that the owner would have missed it soon after its loss.

The button was quickly forgotten, however, as something else drew her attention. There, not far away from the fallen article, was a stain like spilt liquid on the stone floor, and unless she was much mistaken, it looked as if it had come to be there recently. Meli narrowed her eyes, her puzzlement growing by the moment, and turned to have a better look at it.

It wasn't pooled; it looked rather as if it had been transferred from something else to the stone when that something else had been pressed to the floor. It didn't gleam as it would have done had the liquid been fresh, and she thought that it was drying steadily, if not already completely dried. She moved a few inches closer to investigate—

And stopped, the air fleeing her lungs.

She knew the look, and she most certainly knew the smell. This was human blood, and if it had been transferred rather than spilled, it had entered Hogwarts on someone's body or clothing.

Meli stood and lit her wand, no longer trusting to the weak starlight that filtered in through the windows. A swift survey of the scene told her little more, but she no longer doubted that some kind of altercation had taken place, and she was certain that either Snape or Zarekael had been involved. The blood was not Zarekael's, but further identification of it was impossible. It did not require too much of a leap in logic to establish, however, that Lupin and Black had probably also participated in the altercation, and that that was at least one reason for their being abroad in the company of Severus Snape.

She thought back to the scene that had played out the better part of an hour before, but while she had caught no scent of blood on any of them, she could not say for certain that the stain couldn't have come from them. It might have been just a small amount on the clothing, and since she hadn't been specifically trying to catch a whiff of blood, the odds of her having smelt it were slim to none if that were the case.

She turned one last time, looking for any further clues, but none presented themselves, so she snuffed the light and went on her way, pocketing the button as she did.

She would sleep because she must, but she would be sure that she remained alert for anything else that might explain this.

Her instincts told her that whatever had taken place, it was vitally important, though she couldn't say exactly why.

ooo

Meli rose an hour before breakfast, chose a new appearance charm, and proceeded to the Great Hall, arriving with a number of early-rising teachers. Snape nodded a mute greeting, then seated himself and stared at the far end of the Hall. Vector and Flitwick offered her tight smiles, and the latter patted her arm as if in sympathy. They knew, then, or suspected that she had some involvement in the aftermath of the Dursleys' disappearance, which in turn suggested that they knew of an escapee.

It made sense, really; they would need to be told, both as Order members and as Harry's teachers.

Even Trelawney put in an appearance at breakfast, her large, buggy eyes greatly humanized by the very real tears that graced them. She managed a smile for Meli and tilted her head politely. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "I don't believe I know you."

Meli couldn't bring herself in that moment to think of the other woman as ridiculous nor to treat her as such. "Sara Crewe," she replied in a low voice, meeting the Divination teacher's gaze with green-gray eyes. "You're Sibyl Trelawney?"

Trelawney nodded, but words caught in her throat, and Meli allowed her a graceful exit, marveling at the sudden humanity and seriousness of the nutty fraud of a teacher.

All of the faculty had arrived by the time the first students started trickling in, and the contrast between the two groups was marked and bitter. The teachers looked as if they were assembled for a funeral, while the students chattered and greeted one another as cheerily as might be expected of teenagers at seven in the morning. Harry Potter was absent, of course; he would be in Dumbledore's office, speaking with McGonagall and the headmaster, who alone of the teachers were missing.

Even Zarekael had come to breakfast, Meli saw, though it seemed to her that he had far rather be by himself in the dungeons' depths and that he _ought_ to be in the hospital wing awaiting a dire prognosis. He was unusually pale for even his norm, and she had not seen him so quiet and miserable since the end of the previous term, when he had avoided everyone with such mysterious determination. His present state topped even his misery in the face of Snape's anger over the Penseive, and that was not at all reassuring under the circumstances.

_He knows_, she abruptly realized. _Whatever happened to Vernon and Petunia Dursley, he saw it done._ She swallowed. _Or he did it._

That thought did nothing at all to comfort her and, in fact, served to discompose her further. She had known only that the Dursleys were in all likelihood dead, that it wouldn't have been a pleasant end, and that Voldemort had done no magical work in it, either to torture or to kill, but with Zarekael being ordered to make the kills…

The well-remembered image of John Golden's horribly disfigured body flashed through her mind, driving away what little appetite she had managed to retain.

The _Prophet'_s delivery owl saw to it that she was not alone in her loss of appetite, for no sooner had the students filled their plates than the newspaper arrived, bringing with it a screaming headline and just enough details of what had befallen the Dursleys to turn even the most stalwart stomach.

Meli cast a cursory glance at the front page, gleaning the basic gist of the article from key, eye-catching words and phrases long before the first reaction came from the students. The faculty sat in stony silence, until that calm should be disturbed by the need to retain disciplinary control.

The storm broke with the sound of a second-year Ravenclaw vomiting all over the table in front of her, and from there the noise level crescendoed rapidly to a roar.

It was not so much that anyone cared about the Dursleys themselves; until today almost no one had even known who they were. The questions and concerns raised by their brutal deaths came rather too close to home, however.

How dared You-Know-Who strike out at Harry Potter's family? How had he managed it? If he could reach even them, who must be heavily protected for Harry's sake, what was to stop him from reaching anyone he pleased? Was anyone truly safe anymore? Had anyone ever been?

What did it mean for Harry Potter? What did it mean for the war?

How could _anyone_, even You-Know-Who be so savagely brutal? Was there any hope that You-Know-Who could be overcome when he possessed such methods _and_ the gumption to use them?

The students were permitted a full two minutes of such speculation at noise levels that qualified as pollution before Flitwick climbed atop the faculty table and blew up a loaf of bread in a spectacular, deafening explosion.

The student body fell immediately silent, and when the snowstorm of flaming breadcrumbs had finished, Flitwick cleared his throat.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he called out in a resonant voice. "You are all obviously aware by now of the events which transpired last night. I will not insult your intelligence by asking you to set this aside and have a happy, carefree day. What I do ask, however, is that you remain calm. Classes will go on as normal unless otherwise announced, and Headmaster Dumbledore will be addressing the student body at dinner this evening. For that reason, quidditch practices are canceled for today, but regular practice schedules will resume tomorrow. Thank you."

He climbed down and, perhaps in an attempt to start up a conversation, grimly offered Trelawney some toast. The Divination teacher refused, burst into tears, and rushed out of the Great Hall.

Meli shook her head and made a less obtrusive exit, as did, she saw from the corner of her eye, Ron and Ginny Weasley and Hermione Granger.

ooo

Harry's friends were standing outside the statue guarding Dumbledore's office, running through an exhaustive list of confections, when Meli arrived.

"None of those will work," she told them softly, the sound of her voice nevertheless causing them to jump and whirl.

"Erm, no?" Hermione stammered as she came in for a landing.

"No," Meli replied. "At the advice of some of his friends, the headmaster has installed a new system of wards that keep people not meant to be in his office from gaining entry to it, even if they use the correct password."

Ron swore under his breath, and Ginny jabbed him in the ribs. "How do you know that?" she asked.

Meli smiled faintly and bowed. "Rasa, at your service," she answered, then turned to face the statue. "Papos de anjo," she said, then looked to the others. "Harry will find you as soon as he's done here."

The stairway was fully visible by now, so Meli stepped inside, leaving the threesome out in the corridor.

ooo

By the time she knocked at the headmaster's door, she had changed her _glamourie_ again. Harry, not surprisingly, was still in the office, but she could tell that she hadn't interrupted a conversation. Dumbledore and McGonagall stood in front of the former's desk, watching Harry, who himself stood opposite the door, staring numbly at nothing in particular.

Dumbledore turned at her entrance. "Ah, I wondered when we would be seeing you, Miss—"

"Gradgrind," she finished for him, smiling at Harry as if the introduction was for his benefit only. "Louisa Gradgrind, at your service, Mr. Potter."

He mechanically shook the hand she extended. "Pleased to meet you," he mumbled.

Meli turned now to Dumbledore. "The students have taken the news about as well as can be expected," she told him. "I think they'll be glad to hear your words tonight." She glanced at Harry. "And lest you should wonder, Mr. Potter, your friends are anxious to know that you're all right."

Harry frowned in tragic confusion. "Why shouldn't I be all right?" he countered. "I wasn't exactly fond of any of them. They almost weren't even family."

She saw the lie in his eyes, though, and heard the false note in his words. He was grieved at the loss, and he was at a loss as to why. Every logical faculty in him told him that he should be, if not glad, at least relieved, basking in the freedom of a suddenly unshackled slave.

Meli permitted herself a tight smile; yes, she'd chosen her present identity well—who better than Louisa Gradgrind to understand that logic by itself could often be dead wrong?

"But surely, as terribly as they treated you, they didn't deserve their fate?" she suggested gently.

Harry shuddered involuntarily. "No one deserves that," he all but whispered. "Not even—" He caught himself and broke off.

_Not even Voldemort,_ Meli finished silently. _But it would seem he's not willing to go quite that far anymore. That in itself shows he had some attachment, however tenuous, to the Dursleys._

She wasn't so stupid as to think that it showed much hope for Dudley, though; she recognized cold shock when she saw it, and Harry was firmly in its grip. When the shock wore off and he saw Dudley alive and well, more customary and less amiable feelings would resurface to determine his actions.

How unfortunate that that fact made him her psychological enemy—or would do soon enough.

Dumbledore, wisely perceiving that it would be best to intervene before "Miss Gradgrind's" emotions took control of her mouth, cleared his throat. "I understand that this is difficult news, Harry," he said quietly. "You're excused from classes for the remainder of the day. I'll be calling Mr. and Mrs. Weasley shortly, and unless I'm much mistaken, one or both of them will arrive here soon after."

Harry looked up slowly, shock damping down the excitement he would probably otherwise have shown. "Will I be living with them now?" he asked. "During holidays, I mean."

Dumbledore traded sober glances with Meli and McGonagall before answering. "It's rather a complicated matter," he said evasively, "but the short answer to your question is yes."

Harry forced a smile, then took his leave, McGonagall following close behind.

Before the door had fully closed behind them, Tippy popped up on Dumbledore's desk.

"Tippy is asking Professor Dumbledore's pardon," the house elf uttered in a tangled rush, "but there is two people who is wanting to talk to Professor Dumbledore right now."

The headmaster raised his eyebrows. "What names do they give?" he inquired.

"They is the Weasleys, sir!" Tippy replied. "And Mrs. Weasley is as red as Winky's nose, sir! She is waving the _Daily Prophet._"

"Bring them up, Tippy," Dumbledore ordered, then sighed as the house elf disappeared again. "I would have preferred that they hear the news from me," he said wearily.

"Damned guaranteed five o'clock delivery," Meli muttered. "I'd forgotten that Hogwarts is on a delayed delivery schedule."

Dumbledore shrugged heavily. "Well, the damage is already done," he remarked philosophically. "And now we must simply hope that Molly doesn't murder us before we've said our piece."

Meli shook her head. "If I'd known I'd be dealing with a pissed-off Molly Weasley, I'd have left Louisa Gradgrind at home and come as She-Ra."

To judge by Dumbledore's neutral expression, he didn't know She-Ra from He-Man, and still less did he care. There was no time to address the topic further, however, for at that moment the door crashed open with the fury of a hurricane, and in stormed a purple-faced Molly Weasley with a worried-looking Arthur in her wake.

"**_ALBUS DUMBLEDORE, WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS!"_** Molly demanded in a voice far more suited for a Howler than for indoor conversation. She stormed across the office and came within a hair of shoving the _Prophet_ up Dumbledore's nose. **_"WOULD YOU CARE TO EXPLAIN WHY WE HAD TO FIND OUT FROM THE NEWSPAPER INSTEAD OF YOU!"_******

Meli had melted into the shadows on the wall opposite the door, the better to observe this display without herself being dragged into it. She decided now that she had rather hear a shrieking contest between a banshee and a Ringwraith than endure the wrath of Molly.

_How unfortunate that I didn't think of that earlier,_ she thought, wincing at Molly's ear-shattering timbre; the woman truly could be a professional glass-breaker.

"Molly, please," Arthur said quietly. "He can't answer when you're shouting."

**_"DON'T START WITH ME, ARTHUR!"_** she screamed back, then returned her scathing glare to the headmaster. **_"WELL!"_******

"My dear Molly," Dumbledore sighed, "I'm afraid I made a miscalculation. By the time I had definite information to pass on to you, it was close enough to breakfast time that it seemed silly to wake you, when an hour's delay would make little difference. I had forgotten that the _Daily Prophet_ would already have arrived, and I apologize for not thinking of that and for the anxiety it has undoubtedly caused you."

The only sign that Molly was in any way mollified was that, instead of embarking upon another rampage, she clamped her mouth shut and settled for burning holes into the headmaster with her eyes. Arthur didn't look as though he greatly preferred this altered tactic, and he certainly didn't seem satisfied with Dumbledore's explanation, such as it was.

"According to the _Daily Prophet_," he said, "the Dursleys were found several hours before press time. What else was there to tell us, other than that they were captured and brutally murdered?"

Coming from Molly in her present mood, the question might have been accusatory; Arthur managed to sound curious and appropriately concerned. Meli was impressed at his relative calm—especially since she really and truly couldn't blame Molly for her lack of it.

Dumbledore smiled wanly. "You might remember from the article that the Dursleys' son Dudley is still unaccounted for?"

Arthur's eyes went wide, and Molly stiffened. "Yes," the former replied, his tone suddenly very peculiar.

Rather than elaborating, the headmaster turned his head to face Meli, bringing with his gaze the attention of the Weasleys. She stepped silently out of the shadows, then nodded deeply, first to Arthur, then to Molly.

"Mr. and Mrs. Weasley," she said, "I am Rasa. You may want to sit down before I tell you why I'm here."

Even after only two months of active duty, it seemed nevertheless that she had quite the reputation. The Weasleys sat mechanically, and she saw that the wheels had begun spinning at breakneck speed behind their eyes; she had their full, undivided attention.

"As you seem already to suspect," she told them quietly, "Dudley Dursley survived and is now under my protection."

"How?" Molly asked, sounding nearly as stunned as she looked.

In answer, Meli slid from her finger the Order of the Phoenix portkey ring that she, like most of the Order's at-risk agents, wore, and she held it up for them to see. "Two Order operatives attempted to give the Dursleys portkey rings this past summer," she answered. "They only succeeded in passing one to Dudley." She paused, swallowing to counter the tightening of her throat. _Only five more days—!_

"There was a follow-up mission to get a ring to Petunia, as well, but—" She broke off and cleared her throat. "Well, others moved more quickly." She blinked a few times to relieve her suddenly burning eyes before continuing. "Dudley escaped, arriving at my base of operations shortly after midnight. He suffered a dreadful shock, understandably, and he was up for several hours afterward. He's now sleeping—he knows his parents are dead, but we had no further details to give him at the time."

Dumbledore watched the Weasleys carefully for a moment, then picked up where Meli had dropped off. "When Dudley wakes," he said softly, "he's going to need somewhere to go."

Arthur took a deep breath but said nothing, clearly waiting for his wife's reaction. Molly was silent a moment, then soberly met Dumbledore's eye. "He hasn't any other family…has he."

The headmaster shook his head. "I'm afraid not," he replied. "At least, no one capable of protecting him from Dark wizards."

"Oddly enough," Meli mused aloud, "I don't think he'd _want_ to go live with his Aunt Marge."

"Is she the dog-breeder?" Arthur inquired, furrowing his brow in concern.

Meli nodded. "To our knowledge, she's the only family aside from Harry that he has left."

That did it for Molly. Her eyes blazed suddenly, and she firmly set her jaw. "There is no way I'll see him bundled off to live with that despicable, nasty, puffed-up _broad_!" she snapped, drawing a gasp from Arthur and raised eyebrows from Meli and Dumbledore. "I don't care if she spoils him and thinks the world of him—or _says_ so to his parents' faces, at any rate! She _plainly_ doesn't know the first thing about appropriately raising a child, much less taking in a boy who's been orphaned under these circumstances!" Her own words hit her suddenly, and her eyes filled with tears. "The poor boy!" she all but sniffled. "Is there any way we can take him, Albus—any way at all?"

Meli shot Dumbledore a sardonic look and shook her head. She'd been worried about convincing the Weasleys to take Dudley in, but here, with only an off-hand remark and not a shot fired, Molly had got into such a state that she would fight them tooth and nail if they told her to do anything else.

_Mama-bear, indeed,_ she thought dryly.

Arthur was nodding his agreement with Molly, but he looked a little cautious. "What about Harry?" he asked. "We'll be taking him, too, of course, but—does he know yet?"

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "I thought it best to give him one shock at a time," he answered. "This afternoon, when Dudley is awake and able to meet you, we'll tell Harry."

"We also thought it best if neither boy was quite alone for the meeting," Meli added.

Arthur nodded again, and while Molly didn't seem entirely happy with the arrangement, she at least did not protest, doubtless recognizing that there simply was no perfect way to go about it. It wouldn't be pretty in any case, but at least with both boys still in shock and having advocates in the same room, it stood a chance of going somewhat smoothly.

Hopefully.

ooo

It did not require much urging from Dumbledore to convince Arthur and Molly to spend the day with Harry. Meli did remind them not to tell him about Dudley yet, but it was almost unnecessary to do so. Once the Weasleys had departed, Meli looked to Dumbledore with an arched eyebrow.

"Headmaster," she said dryly, "I know you have a number of things on your mind, and I do hate to add one more—"

"But?" he prompted.

"_But_," she continued with a smirk, "what exactly will Dudley be wearing when he meets the Weasleys?"

It had been rather unpleasant, though not surprising, news when Tippy had apologetically informed her that Dudley's clothing had been damaged beyond repair by his adventures the previous evening. What had so damaged them Meli could not guess, nor did she want to, but he had looked every inch the refugee he was.

Pajamas were readily available items because Poppy kept a supply in the hospital wing. Day-wear, unfortunately, would be a little harder to come by, and when there was an escapee on the loose who was known to be of a certain age and certain measurements, one did not simply walk into the nearest Wipstich & Tatting's to buy up a new wardrobe.

Dumbledore knit his brows as he pondered the problem. "Well," he said at last, "there's only one person I know of from whom he could borrow without raising suspicion."

Meli tilted her head. "Oh?"

The headmaster nodded and looked a bit dubious. "I believe Zarekael has kept some of his clothes from his time as a student here," he replied slowly.

The mental image of Dudley traipsing about in Zarekael's Victorian suit and billowing robe was a bit more disturbing than Meli cared to admit out loud. The boy had lost significant weight in the past year, but his build was hardly optimized for the cut of Zarekael's clothing, and beyond that…well, it required a particular brand of dignity to pull off that look, and unless she was much mistaken, Dudley fell into another category entirely.

_Better to have him borrow from Longbottom_, she thought, but that, of course, would raise awkward questions unless she just filched the clothing outright, which she was unwilling to do.

"Well," she managed, after a very difficult moment, "I suppose if that's the best we can do, it'll have to suffice."

Dumbledore took a deep breath and raised his eyebrows a tad. "I'll talk with Zarekael during his free period."

ooo

Dudley woke shortly after lunchtime, and by then Meli had obtained and somewhat altered a set of clothes. The boy had a large meal, and then he faced the unenviable task of putting on his borrowed plumage; it did not go well.

Meli's alterations did help; she had guessed nearly right at Dudley's measurements, so the shirt and trousers fit well enough and required only minimal tweaking for a technical fit. The problem lay not so much in the substance of the clothing, however, as in its art or, more precisely, its style.

The shirt Zarekael had provided was Regency-period and appeared to have staged an escape from the wardrobe of Mr. Knightly. It had a high collar that folded forward in neat little triangles that were meant to hover in the air like misplaced wings rather than rest against the chest or shoulders. They did this very well without assistance, courtesy of a thorough starching job, but the shirt was meant to be accompanied by a cravat or tie and a high-necked jacket, the joint function of which was to appear to hold the collar in place.

If Dudley had ever seen a cravat, it had been on television; properly situating and wearing one constituted an impossible feat, and the jacket, whose presence would have diminished the need for the cravat, refused to look at all passable on him. Meli made valiant attempts with both cravat and tie, but to little avail. She at last managed to make the tie look more or less presentable, if not neat, then called it good.

The shirt was designed to be worn with _some_ form of jacket, however, so Meli helped Dudley into one of Zarekael's old student robes, from which she had carefully removed the Slytherin badge. He would have to wear robes at Caliban, after all; he might as well start getting used to it now.

Once the process was complete, Meli and Tippy surveyed the final product and traded glances.

"Is Sir wanting a mirror?" the house elf asked, a little nervously.

Dudley looked uncertainly from Tippy to Meli and back. "I don't know," he answered carefully. "Do I?"

Meli sighed. "It's not _that_ bad," she told him. "Go on, Tippy, bring a mirror for him."

Tippy disappeared, reappearing a few seconds later with a full-length mirror in an elaborately carved frame. Dudley surveyed his reflection, frowned thoughtfully, and turned away. "I think I'm a bit too grungy for the look," he commented, then let the subject drop.

_I'm sure Carson would agree,_ Meli thought wryly. _Still, for the moment, it's the best available, and it isn't _so_ awful, really._

The brush lay not with her opinion of his looks, however, nor even with Dudley's opinion; Arthur and Molly would look past the awkward clothing to the wounded boy wearing it, and Dumbledore would, as well. The worry, really, was Harry Potter and not merely what he thought but what he had to say about it. Dudley was down already; he didn't need a good kick in the stomach while he was on the ground, and if Harry chose to administer one, Meli didn't trust herself not to knock out the teeth of the Boy Who Lived.

_Wouldn't _that_ be a splendid headline,_ she reflected darkly. _I can see it now: "HARRY POTTER MAIMED BY FACELESS ROGUE AGENT!"_

She shook off the thought and gave Dudley an encouraging smile. "It's only for now," she told him. "We'll get you proper clothes soon enough."

The boy managed a smile in return, and without a further word passing between them, they left his guest rooms and made their way to Dumbledore's office.

ooo

By specific arrangement, Meli and Dudley arrived shortly after the Weasleys and Harry Potter did. At Dumbledore's request, only Arthur and Molly would be coming with Harry, leaving the two boys to face one another without one having a private army at his back, which, the headmaster knew, was precisely what Hermione, Ginny, and especially Ron would become.

Dumbledore, in typical fashion, had set up tea, and when Meli and Dudley arrived at his office, Molly, Arthur, and Harry were sipping at cups of Earl Grey and listening to a litany of any number of food options, ranging from poppy-seed cake to chocolate chip scones to cucumber sandwiches and nearly everything in between. It was, Meli thought as she stepped out of the fireplace and brushed herself off, probably the best he could do in the way of setting everyone at ease before throwing it all into turmoil again.

She had just enough time to nod in silent greeting to the foursome already in the office and then to step aside before the fire swirled green again and Dudley stepped out behind her. Harry, who had followed the Weasleys' lead in standing to greet her, was on his feet and turning toward the fireplace when Dudley arrived, and he was therefore standing with his face fully to his cousin before he even realized who it was.

Both boys went deathly pale at the sight of one another, but Dudley, who had at least had some warning, managed a polite, if awkward, nod. Harry, by contrast, had gone stiff, and it was all he could do to turn his head and look to Dumbledore in numb shock.

"As I was about to tell you," the headmaster said quietly, evidently resuming an earlier train of conversation, "the ring of which I have just reminded you did as it was intended to do. Dudley had the presence of mind to activate it and escaped to an Order safe-house, which is how he came to be here."

Harry heard the explanation with all of the apparent attentiveness of a stone pillar; Dumbledore's words had no visible effect on him whatsoever, and, in fact, it seemed to Meli that some part of him hardened further. He did not appear angry, nor did it look as though he was intentionally shutting himself down, and she permitted herself the cautious hope that this was a shocked reaction rather than a bitter one.

_What he says next will show the truth of it,_ she thought. _Either he's trying to process the information that Dudley's alive and well, or he's working it out that Dumbledore's known all day and only now got 'round to telling him._

Harry furrowed his brow, breaking the marble of his forehead as he turned back to face Dudley. "I'm…glad you're okay," he said in a bewildered voice.

Meli resisted the urge to arch an eyebrow. _I _think_ that means he's in shock,_ she mused, _but I would never have expected that comment, no matter how off-guard he was taken._ She hesitated to feel reassured on account of Harry's words, but she was not disheartened.

"Thanks," Dudley mumbled in a similar tone. "How, um…how are you?"

Harry managed a shrug. "All right, I guess," he answered. "You?"

Now Dudley furrowed his brow. "I'm not sure, really," he replied. "Okay, more or less."

Harry turned back to Dumbledore, his eyes betraying signs that some of his bewilderment was dissipating in the wake of slowly reawakening logical faculties. "How long…?"

Meli cleared her throat, drawing his attention to her and away from the headmaster. She knew that Harry didn't worship Dumbledore the way Zarekael seemed to do, but she was well aware that he, too, lived under the impression that the old wizard was somehow more than human. With everything else that had happened, Harry didn't need to see his mentor's pedestal topple, too; it might very well produce a bad reaction, and since he probably couldn't bring himself to fire directly at Dumbledore, she wouldn't put it past him to take it out on Dudley instead.

"I took Dudley into protective custody early this morning," she told him coolly, "and he has remained under my protection since that time. This delay in telling you was at my request."

Harry frowned. "Why?"

She nodded once in acknowledgment of a fair question. "There was no chance of you seeing your cousin sooner," she replied, "and I thought it would be best for you to take one shock at a time. Had it been possible for the two of you to meet sooner, that would have been another matter."

If Dumbledore wished to speak up and correct the record, he apparently thought it wiser to remain silent for the moment. Whether or not he saw that she had spoken to deflect any blame from him was, of course, an open question, but he seemed content, at least for now, to hold his peace.

Fortunately, Harry did not look inclined to lay blame at anyone's feet. He merely nodded, then looked back to his cousin. "So…will you be staying at Hogwarts?" he asked.

Dudley glanced first at Meli, then at Dumbledore, clearly inviting either of them to give an answer.

"Arrangements have been made for Dudley to stay with the Weasleys," Dumbledore told Harry.

That Harry did no more than nod again gave testimony to his still being in the grips of shock. He remained silent, and Meli judged that he didn't consider that anything particularly needed saying at the moment. Dudley, who hadn't been at all surprised at meeting Harry, was closer to the surface of reality, enough so that he let out an almost inaudible sigh of relief at his cousin's lack of protest.

_Give it a week, and Harry will have enough to say that it would take volumes to record,_ Meli thought sardonically. _Fortunately, though, you won't have to be around for it, and we can always hope that he'll have it mostly out of his system by Christmas holiday._

That hope, of course, was a long shot, but it was a nice idea to kick around for a minute or so.

The interview ended shortly afterward, and the Weasleys left with Harry. They planned to stay until dinner, after which they would return home, accompanied by Dudley. Meli would go to Caliban the following morning, carrying a letter from Dumbledore to the headmaster there (who, she gathered, was in some way related to Dumbledore), at which time she would process the necessary paperwork for Dudley's enrollment there.

He couldn't keep his name, of course, but she had already seen to that part of his disappearance. At Dudley's own request, he had been given a name that had absolutely nothing to do with his father's side of the family, and by Meli's arrangement, it could only be tied to his mother's side of the family with a great deal of trouble and research—so much trouble, in fact, that she thought it highly unlikely that even Lucius Malfoy would bother with it.

ooo

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Brownie points go to anyone who can identify the Alan Rickman quote in this chapter (including what Alan Rickman character said it, and what movie it's from; hint: if you get the character, the movie should quickly follow).

Also, Omaha Werewolf- I'm glad you liked the A/N. Between having had very long conversations with Snarky about characterization issues and having been the college roommate of a literature major, I've put a lot of thought into thinking out characters and what they'd do when and why. So, thank you for the praise, but I must share it with my dear friends Janson and Snarky.  
As far as the thing with calling Zarekael a "boy"…Here we run into the contrast between perception rather than reality. You make a very good point: Zarekael is twenty years old, considered an adult, and, moreover, eight to ten inches taller than Snape. However, Snape has known him since he was (for purposes of the story up to this point) eleven years old, and while Zarekael has always been more mature than others his age, he was still a youth, Snape's student, and Snape's son, and if Snape's even remotely like my parents, he hasn't quite adjusted to Zarekael being an adult just yet. For reasons that will become apparent in later chapters, that's an overly simplistic answer, but fortunately, it's not the only one.  
There's also the fact that Zarekael, even though he's twenty, can sometimes resemble a young boy when he knows he's done something wrong or when he's in a very unfamiliar situation. That's one reason Meli all but considers him a little brother, even though he's a perfectly capable and mature adult. So, while Snape does see him as an adult, when Zarekael's in disgrace, he reverts back to the little-boy-standing-in-the-corner look, which would make it difficult for Snape to remember that he's a grown-up. I was trying to convey that impression in Chapter 15, but I suppose it went a bit awry. You have my solemn word that I would never intentionally demean Zarekael; I save that for characters for whom I haven't any respect—like James Potter and Sirius Black, for instance insert evil grin .  
Besides, Voldemort does plenty of demeaning of both Snape and Zarekael; he doesn't need any help from me, even if I was inclined to give it.  
As always, thanks for your review!  
AE

**ADDITIONAL NOTICE (6 JULY 2005):** Chapter 18, which was briefly posted, has been temporarily removed pending a thorough overhaul. Those of you who read the original version, I congratulate you: you are in possession of information that Meli herself will not have for a few more months, and in the meantime, you persevered through an excessively boring bit of what is soon to be completely unnecessary Sherlockian deduction. Once Snarky and I have done with the revamping, which should be completed in no more than a few days, I will happily re-post the chapter in all of its glory and (hopefully) none of its ennui.  
And I apologize if I sound like I just jumped out of the nineteenth century; I'm reading _Dracula_ again, and it's starting to affect my diction. I can hardly wait 'til my roommate gets home and tries to engage me in normal conversation!  
In the meantime, thank you for your patience.  
AE


	18. Varadunatos

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **This chapter is a heavily reconstructed re-post of an earlier version. Even if you read the original post, Snarky and I strongly recommend that you read this new version, as it contains different information than the original did. This is the chapter of record and will necessarily set the course of the story, which is now slightly different than what it would otherwise have been.  
AE

**Chapter 18: Varadunatos**

**PRESENT: EARLY NOVEMBER**

It required only a day or so for Meli's part in settling Dudley to be taken care of, and she happily relinquished the rest of the duty to the capable Molly Weasley. She took her leave of the family two days after their departure from Hogwarts, and then she had a very long day off.

The length of the day had nothing to do with either the number of hours between sunrise and sunset or a lack of anything to do. Meli had planned to catch up on some of her sleep and to spend the rest of the day restocking her supply of necessary potions in the Bat Cave, but unfortunately, brewing work was just mechanical enough to let her mind wander, and when her mind wandered, she was far too likely to think on loose ends and try to tie them up somehow.

Her thoughts returned to the early morning hours of 1 November and the many oddities she had encountered. The Dursleys' capture and Dudley's escape ought to have been quite enough, and at the time, at least, they had been, but the other things she had seen were significant and kept coming back to niggle at her.

First there had been the little run-in with Snape, Lupin, and Padfoot, in which were a number of clues to…well, _something_, though she couldn't put her finger on what, exactly, that something might be. Lupin had dropped the hint about Padfoot having proven himself somehow useful that evening, while Snape's presence in the group implied that something had gone very wrong, possibly with an article of Order business, though that might just be her paranoia at work. That the three of them had been abroad at that hour implied urgency; Snape, of course, wandered the corridors at any time of the day or night, but Lupin, when not under the effects of a full moon or doing rounds, tended to be strictly diurnal.

Then, of course, there was the trace evidence of some sort of altercation near the front entrance of the school. Someone had fallen or been wrestled to the floor, and a button had been lost from quality clothing. The former could have been nothing more than someone tripping, except for the transfer of human blood from that person to the ground, but the latter indicated some manner of violence. Snape's hearing, according to Crimson Fell, was quite sharp, and knowing as she did that he had some vampiric drops in his veins, Meli had a good idea of just how sharp it might be; Zarekael's hearing was, of course, preternatural, as he had proven more than once. For either of them to have dropped a button at night and not heard it fall, there had to be other noises to cover up that one—noises associated with a scuffle, for instance. Furthermore, both men were extremely fastidious and would have noticed a loose button on their clothing, which they would, in all likelihood, have taken pains to secure before it attempted an escape. If, then, a button had fallen, it had probably been helped on its way.

Why had there been a scuffle, and whom had it involved? The button narrowed one of the combatants down to either Snape or Zarekael, but he had not been fighting by himself. There were very few people awake at the hour at which the fight must have taken place—only four others besides herself that she could account for. Going strictly by what she knew, then, Snape must be the owner of the button, and the only others who could have fought him were Padfoot, Lupin, Dumbledore, and Meli.

"Well, I know _I_ didn't wrestle him," she murmured sardonically to herself. "And unless I'm much mistaken, I think Dumbledore is safely ruled out, as well."

Lupin, then, or Padfoot—or possibly both. After all, hadn't she seen all three of them leaving the headmaster's office together?

Meli smirked as a peculiar image occurred to her: Severus Snape, Remus Lupin, and a big, black dog in a flurry of fisticuffs when a teacher came upon them and hauled them off to the headmaster—

"But if all three of them were involved in the fight," she mused, "who broke it up?" She shook her head. "Far more likely that it was Severus and Black fighting, and _Lupin_ broke it up." It also fit much better with her understanding of the individuals involved; Lupin, while probably willing to stand his ground and put up a fight if circumstances demanded it, was not one to descend to the level of a schoolyard row. As much as she liked and respected him, she had to admit that Snape's temper was short and violent where Black was concerned, and as for Black himself…well, it wasn't too much of a stretch to say that he had probably started it in the first place.

_I have to wonder if Lupin ever grows tired of being the perpetual peace-keeper,_ she thought, feeling a new appreciation for the werewolf's patience. _I surely would have done by now._

Of course, there were still two nagging questions to which she had no answers. First, if Lupin had had to break up a fight involving Padfoot—which must surely have nettled him a bit—why had he been so quick to say that Padfoot had been useful that very evening?

And secondly, what on earth had possessed Snape and Black to have a boxing match in the dead of night in, of all places, the entry gallery of Hogwarts?

There was nothing to connect any of it with the Dursley murders; to all appearances, it was a bizarre coincidence…and yet…

_Severus knows something,_ she surmised. _I don't know what, and I don't even know how I know it…but my gut tells me it's so._

Before she could continue that thought, however, her arrival alarm sounded, and she was called away from her cauldron to greet another escapee from Voldemort.

ooo

The latest escapee was a disgruntled and frightened Auror, and it took Meli very little time to determine the cause for her terrified frustration. Sable Nightshade was a moderately powerful witch, but her chief intimidating quality was her quirky magical improvisation, which led her to employ unorthodox charms in unintended ways that turned them, for all intents and purposes, into extremely nasty hexes. She had been utterly prevented from doing this to the Death Eaters attacking her, however, because she had found herself unable to utilize magic at all. It was an unpleasant discovery anyway, but under the circumstances, it could very well have got her killed had she not had an Order portkey ring.

Meli's first course of action was to test Sable's wand, but it proved to be in perfect working order. Her next course was to call Alfred.

"Bring a pot of anise tea," she told him, "and a very large teacup. We're going to have to experiment with antidotes."

There were a large number of potions that caused witches and wizards to lose the ability to use magic. Some acted as blockers, effectively turning them into squibs, while others leeched the magic itself out of them. Most had antidotes, but these were difficult to come by unless they were kept on hand, and who generally kept a ready supply of that sort of antidote?

The answer, predictably, was that almost no one did, and that was why the occasional use of one of those potions on a particularly troublesome person like Sable Nightshade was so effective. Fortunately, Rasa kept an arsenal of antidotes for every potion Voldemort could use as a weapon, a complete list of which had been provided and was consistently updated by none other than the Dark Lord's own potions brewers.

Very few antidotes to any potion ever tasted good, but sugar rendered several of them ineffective. In her search for flavoring agents that would mask the nastiness without interfering with the function of an antidote, Meli had found only one universally benign flavor, and that was anise. Granted, a number of people didn't care for anise, either, but she knew from experience that it was far more palatable than, say, the antidote to the slow-acting Venaconstrictus poison—to say nothing of its taste being preferable to the effects of the poison itself.

She left Sable for a moment, returning soon after Alfred did and bringing with her a carrying case filled with bottles and vials.

It required about three hours, not a moment of which time was incredibly pleasant for either lady, to ascertain that the potion used on Sable was not a power-blocker or a power-leecher. Meli was becoming frustrated, and Sable, who had vomited more than once and developed a migraine in the course of the experimentation, was toeing the line of losing her temper.

It was the Auror's anger, in fact, that tipped them off to the true problem. When Meli capped the last of the vials in her case and stared at the teapot in despair, Sable exploded—and so did the teapot.

"I thought you were supposed to know about these things!" the Auror snapped amid a torrential downpour of anise tea and porcelain shards. "But you don't even know how to brew a proper antidote to a leeching potion! If you're that stupid, how can I even trust you to hide me safely? What sort of an idiot does Albus Dumbledore have to be to have put you in charge of mopping floors, much less—"

"The antidotes work perfectly well, Miss Nightshade," Meli interrupted coldly. "What isn't working well is your ability to use your wand. You've not been leeched or blocked."

"Oh, really," Sable sneered. "Then what, exactly, have I been?"

Meli regarded her impassively. "What you've been," she replied, "is what forgotten stories would call wand-baned. Your wandless magic is as powerful as ever; I submit for your consideration Exhibit A." She indicated the spatter of shards and gray liquid now occupying the tea tray. "It's not your magic being blocked; it's your ability to use your wand."

"And I don't suppose you happen to have an antidote for that?" Sable said snidely.

Meli narrowed her eyes in an expression she'd learned from several of her familiars. "I find it rather irritating and not a little insulting that you think of my supply as inadequate," she stated through her teeth. "You're lucky to come across a third of these antidotes in one place together, much less all of them at once. That I happen to lack one is inconvenient, but it ought to be more expected than not. I have in my possession antidotes for every poison I know You-Know-Who to use, and I have resources that will allow me to locate others, as well—if not already brewed, at least the recipes for them. That being the case, I would greatly appreciate it if you would shut up and allow me to do my job. If that proves too much for you to do unassisted, I can easily arrange for you to be placed under house arrest until such a time as you can have your abilities restored to you, at which time I will make arrangements for you to be hidden somewhere far away from here." She arched a diabolical eyebrow. "I hear Antarctica is very nice this time of year. Do we understand one another?"

Sable wasn't happy, to say the least, but under the circumstances, she didn't have much leverage for argument. All anyone had to do was ward a door, and even if the charm could be broken by a simple "_Alohamora"_, she wouldn't be able to get past it.

"If you don't mind my asking, then," the Auror growled ungraciously, "just how long will I have to wait for this antidote?"

"I don't rightly know," Meli replied airily. "It depends largely upon how long it takes me to locate the recipe and brew it up. Any other questions, or shall I have Alfred escort you to your temporary quarters?"

Sable hadn't any further questions—at least none that she cared to voice at that time—so, at Meli's bidding, Alfred led her away, leaving her to ponder the problem at hand.

She lived in a Potions master's house, with free access to countless books that might hold the answer she sought—or might not. Only the most modern of those volumes would have helpful indices, which meant that she would have to make her search page by page through the majority of the brewing library. That alone could take days, even if she took a bit of time first to look up a word-locating spell and used that to help her. The antidote might be complicated, but her instinct told her otherwise; the chief devastation of this particular potion lay not in its effect nor in the difficulty of brewing its antidote but rather in its masquerading as a different type of potion altogether. If not for Sable's understandable loss of temper, the true nature of the potion might never have been known.

It was a rarely-used brew, though, and only Meli's fascination with odd facts and odder potions and spells had caused her to remember any reference to it. She recalled vaguely having stumbled over an off-hand mention of it in some convoluted fairy story she'd read as a teenager, and it had intrigued her enough that she had looked it up. She had discovered in the process that it was far easier to uncover random allusions to it than to find anything pertaining to the science of it, and she knew, therefore, that she had a pile of work ahead of her. It was entirely possible that her search here would come up fruitless, in which case she would have to go to Hogwarts and ask either Snape or Zarekael about it.

That would probably be the best course anyway, she reflected. On the one hand, if one of them had brewed it, it ought to be on her list of potions to which she had ready antidotes, which indicated that another Death Eater had made it or, more likely, bought it on Knockturn Alley. On the other hand, however, potions were their livelihood and one of their greatest joys, and it was highly unlikely that an intriguing brew like this one would have escaped the notice of both. One or the other would know of it, and surely one of them would have a helpful text on it.

_I wouldn't put it past Severus to keep extra copies of particularly helpful texts here, though,_ she thought. _It's entirely possible…if rather unlikely…that I could find the answer without having to leave Snape Manor._

She doubted it, however, and so posted a coded letter to Dumbledore, informing him that there was a high probability of a curriculum evaluator by the name of Esther Summerson dropping by the school in a few days. Her cover well-established ahead of time, she then turned her steps toward the manor house library.

ooo

As she had suspected, her searching the library was in vain. She found only isolated references to the potion, and those in some of the most unsavory volumes she had the misfortune to encounter, the writers of which had felt no compulsion to allude to the existence of an antidote, much less to spell out how said antidote could be concocted. She therefore posted another letter to Dumbledore to tell him that Miss Summerson would, indeed, be coming and, after a fitful few hours' sleep, apparated to Hogsmeade and took a stroll that would have been pleasant had it not been bitterly cold outside.

She arrived at the school just before breakfast and met briefly with Dumbledore, first to update her logbook and secondly to inform him of the reason for her visit. He approved of her methods, and confirmed what she'd already determined: that there was a good chance that one or both of the Potions teachers would know the potion in question. With that encouragement, she waited for the best possible time to seek out her information.

As it happened, she might very well have chosen better.

Snape was not at lunch, so she decided to ask Zarekael first, and if he was unable to help, she could seek out Snape later on.

She had no wish to broadcast to the school what, exactly, she was researching, but it was necessary to make clear to Zarekael that she needed to talk to him. Had she been primarily a Slytherin, rather than the quasi-Slytherin she admitted to, she might have gone about it a bit differently, but in this unfortunate case, her Gryffindor nature came more than usually to the forefront.

She started out well enough, with a polite inquiry to talk with Zarekael after lunch. Given that she was supposedly there to evaluate various different curricula, her request was not particularly out of the ordinary—not for Zarekael, and not for anyone else who might overhear.

After lunch, she and Zarekael left the Great Hall, and out in the corridor, she caught his eye. "There's a potion I need to discuss with you," she said, quite naturally, but giving him a significant look. It wasn't a potion to be talked about lightly, nor where certain enterprising Slytherins could overhear. "I was hoping you'd have some information on it."

Zarekael narrowed his eyes, obviously picking up on part of her meaning—the part about it requiring secrecy, at any rate. "Very well," he replied, his tone as neutral as his countenance. "Would you care to move this conversation to a more comfortable location?"

Meli smiled. "By all means."

They silently relocated from the public corridor, not to the Potions room nor to Snape's office, but to Zarekael's quarters. Once inside, Zarekael went as far as the fireplace, then turned to address her, his back to the fire and his face suddenly a marble mask unreadable even to someone who knew him. The flames backlit him slightly and interacted oddly with the flickering torchlight with which his rooms were lit to send strange, menacing shadows playing across his cold countenance.

"So," he said flatly, crossing his arms and looking down his nose at her with narrowed eyes. "What is it that you want from me?"

Meli frowned, not at all bothering to disguise her utter confusion. His question was, on the surface, _almost_ normal, but there was that little qualifier, and there were also his tone of voice and body language to consider. He had gone, in the space of a heartbeat, from the young man she knew and considered a friend to this cold, accusing stranger standing before her…and she could think of absolutely no reason for the change.

_Well,_ she thought dubiously, _I doubt I'm going to get any further clues from him without either answering his question—such as it is—or asking one of my own…which I'm suddenly rather unwilling to do. _

The question itself bewildered her, for she didn't think she'd been so subtle as to leave out the fact that she needed information on a potion. _In fact, I specifically remember saying I needed to ask about a potion,_ she recalled. _When you need to ask about a potion, you go to a Potions master—_

She broke off in the middle of that thought. _Snape_, not Zarekael, was the master, and she had gone to the apprentice rather than the master. It was a minor protocol, really, and one that friends sometimes bypassed, but there was more to both men than potions; they were also Death Eaters, which predisposed them to be suspicious, even paranoid.

_I broke protocol with people who are daily surrounded by intrigue, and I made it clear that I had something secretive in mind when I asked my initial question,_ she realized with a pang. _What else could he think, then?_

"I—I never—" she stammered, floundering for the best words to articulate her actual intention. "This isn't a—a prelude to some—shady deal! Good Lord, it never entered my mind!"

While he did nothing to alter his pose, Zarekael's features softened just slightly, and she had the uncomfortable feeling that he wasn't sure whether or not to believe her. "I apologize for jumping to conclusions," he said quietly…but there was an unspoken _but_ at the end of his apology that made her more nervous still.

"Things being as they are, it was a reasonable conclusion," she countered. It was difficult to think at the moment, so she slipped her eyes away from him, searching for something—anything—to focus on that would help her to find clarity again. Instead, she found other objects of concern, which were all too happy to glimmer and gleam in the firelight at her: the sword, the battle-axe, and the javelin, displayed around the mantle…and within extremely easy reach of the suddenly very intimidating man standing before her.

She swallowed, as the Slytherin in her took stock of the situation as it was and came to a rather unpleasant conclusion. _He was very deliberate in where he chose to stand,_ she realized. Her Gryffindor nature, however, was a bit slower on the take and reasoned that the best way to break, or at least to ease, the growing tension might be through a candid joke. "I see what you mean by a 'more comfortable location'," she blurted, with a pointed glance at the weapons behind him. "It's very comfortable for _you._"

While the punch-line was still coming out, however, she caught sight of what she had missed before: a peculiar, not at all human, glint in Zarekael's eye that she could not precisely identify but which did not, by any stretch of the imagination, herald a pleasant end to the conversation. That glint, combined now with the frown her words elicited, were all she needed to realize that her joke was no joke at all.

"I'm sorry," she babbled unthinkingly. "I didn't mean—well, I suppose I did, but I didn't _know_—"

"You've said nothing that hadn't already occurred to me," he interjected.

"Oh. All right. So it had occurred…" She trailed off, realizing what that meant. "_Right_, then."

There was no recovering from this, she realized; her composure was shot, her balance lost, and nothing showed any sign of becoming comprehensible anytime soon. There was nothing reassuring to be found in Zarekael's countenance, which was marred now by a further deepening of his frown.

And then, when she had all but concluded that things couldn't possibly get any worse, she suddenly heard a voice in her head.

_Is someone going to say something intelligent, or are we just going to continue hearing the sound of foot-in-mouth? And by the way, Ruthvencairn, would you like some catsup to go with your foot?_

Meli swallowed. It was not at all the sort of comment she would ever have made, either aloud or in her thoughts, particularly given her present predicament, and even had it been, this was not her own mental voice. Rather, it had a male timbre, similar to Zarekael's, actually, but with a proper Oxford accent completely untouched by any trace of the apprentice's native tongue.

Then the situation descended further into surreality, for, as if in reply to the voice she had heard in her head (which had addressed him, as well, she suddenly remembered), Zarekael scowled and switched from English to his first language and started uttering vicious syllables that could not be at all flattering to their recipient. The only comfort to be had from this was that the disturbing glint had disappeared from his eye, but that comfort was tempered by the fact that his eyes had turned inward and lost sight of her entirely…which was, in its own way, every bit as creepy as the glint had been.

_This naturally begs the question,_ Meli thought faintly, _of how _he_ could be talking to a voice in _my_ head._

The voice, it seemed, was quite capable of and willing to continue the conversation, however, for after a few seconds of Zarekael's verbal viciousness, it sighed. _Tsk, tsk, Ruthvencairn. I'm afraid that's anatomically impossible and not _nearly_ as elegant as it could be in any case._

Again, as if in response to the voice's taunt, Zarekael added a few more comments, still in his native tongue. Meli watched and listened in growing horror, but it was tempered by both a bizarre amusement at the whole situation and a morbid curiosity as to what, in fact, Zarekael had said that was so inelegant and anatomically impossible.

The voice was also amused and showed no sign of discouraging Zarekael from continuing his muttered abuse. _My,_ it said, rather saucily. _And how did you come to know so very much about mating habits outside your species?_

It was all Meli could do to hold back a snort of laughter; she was, after all, eavesdropping, and she hadn't come close to forgetting the dangerous situation that had immediately preceded the voice announcing itself in her head and, it appeared, in Zarekael's head, as well.

The voice permitted Zarekael one more comment, which was, judging by the tone of the apprentice's voice and the enraged look on his face, the least charitable one yet, and then it sighed dramatically. _Well, that's all well and good,_ it replied. _But are you aware that you're talking out loud, Ruthvencairn?_

Zarekael's eyes returned to focus on Meli, his countenance melting from fury in the midst of arguing with the voice to an expression that Andrea Underhill would have dubbed the "Oh, Shit-Face". He caught sight of Meli's expression, which surely left no doubt in his mind as to her having heard the whole thing, and she saw that he had a sinking feeling of the full extent of this newest mess.

Meli's Gryffindor nature was, most fortunately, so thoroughly flummoxed that the Slytherin had a chance to take over, and the first thought it sent calmly through her mind was, _Play dumb!_ So, with that sound advice firmly in mind, she took a small step backward from Zarekael and mustered up a worried smile. "Ah…" she said faintly, "what's going on?"

The voice had no further commentary to offer, either to Meli or to Zarekael, and she had the distinct impression that it had stepped briefly into their conversation and then, certain of an accomplished purpose, had stepped away again.

Zarekael's expression changed again into a look of long-suffering resignation. "How much did you hear?" he sighed.

"Well…" she replied slowly, "Assuming it started with the comment about a foot in the mouth, I heard everything, even if I didn't understand all of it." _And I am _not_ going to ask about the anatomically incorrect remark,_ she vowed silently, _even if I _am_ dreadfully curious._

There was a brief flicker of embarrassment and anger in Zarekael's eye as he realized that she had heard both sides of the conversation—including the voice's responses to his off-color remarks—and took stock of the resulting damage. "I…see," he said in a strangled-sounding voice. He regarded her silently for a long moment, then let out a heartfelt sigh and closed his eyes. "The gods have a very peculiar sense of humor."

"I know the feeling," Meli told him quietly, and while the comment was neutral, it was entirely sincere.

Zarekael opened his eyes and looked to her with a near-smile. "Yes," he allowed, "I suppose you would." He raised his eyebrows slightly. "Would you like to have a seat? This has not…gone well—perhaps it would be best if we just start over?"

Meli offered a wan smile and a shaky nod as she moved to the nearest chair and seated herself. She was unable to relax, however, and she noted that she had not held herself so military-stiff since she had confronted Zarekael about the Golden murders nearly a year before.

Zarekael sat down in the chair facing her and sighed again. "I apologize; you weren't meant to hear any of that."

"If you don't mind my asking," Meli said hesitantly, "what the hell _was_ that?"

"That," Zarekael replied between his teeth, "was Glaurung." He was very irritated, she saw, but his irritation was not directed at her, and that hellish, dangerous glint was still gone from his eyes, turning him once more into the Zarekael she had thought she knew.

"And _who_ is this person?" Meli inquired. Strictly speaking, she had no way of knowing for certain that _glaurung_ was a person's name rather than a name for the brief departure from reality that her mental faculties seemed to have taken, but she vastly preferred to believe it was a person.

"He's not a person, per se," Zarekael answered.

"What, you—" Meli broke off, wisely perceiving that her efforts to lighten the mood would probably only cause further trouble again. "Ah, well, um…hm. Never mind. Please continue."

Zarekael offered an amused glance, testimony that he understood the comment, even unuttered. "What do you know of my father's appearance here?" he asked.

The apparently random question took her aback. "Well…" There were sketchy eyewitness accounts, but nothing that would tell her anything, really. "He came through the gateway," she said at last. "He asked Dumbledore to take you in—"

Zarekael held up a hand to stop her. "What details do you know about his first arrival?" He caught the odd look on her face, realized that she might have interpreted it as an attempt to catch her in a lie, and added, "I'm only asking for what's on the public record. Before I can explain, I need to know how much you know."

Meli thought back. All of the teachers had had vantage points for the arrival; it had set off alarms that roused the entire faculty. Flitwick's account had contained an interesting detail that the others had minimized, probably because he was the most prone to flutter and excitement.

"The most stunning detail I can recall," she answered at last, "is that he was riding a dragon when he arrived." She shrugged. "Well, it was dark, so a dragon or some like beast." _I sound just like Minerva McGonagall,_ she sighed inwardly.

Zarekael's countenance was overswept with irony and the faintest brush of irritation. "Ah, yes. The dragon," he said. "Funny you should mention him."

Meli looked narrowly at him as a likely puzzle piece found a probable resting place. _And who says dragons can't be telepathic on his plane?_ Aloud, she asked, "He didn't go home with your father the second time, did he?"

"No." Zarekael's voice lowered to a mutter. "I'm not entirely sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing."

"Ah." _A helpful loose cannon of a familiar. I've had a couple of those._ She furrowed her brow. _And a dragon from elsewhere whose name is the same as one of the dragons in Tolkien's works. Interesting…_ "I take it he's…telepathic?" she hedged aloud.

"In a way," he replied. "Dragons choose their riders; generally those are the only ones with whom they speak."

_But the dragon was his father's._ Meli frowned slightly. _Maybe the dragon chose Zarekael when he was cut off from his other rider?_ It made as much sense as anything else—which was to say, not much, at least at the moment. "So why did he include me in the conversation?" she asked.

Now Zarekael nearly smirked. "I don't know," he answered. "Ask Severus why Glaurung sometimes talks with him."

"I may do that," Meli said. _I may also ask if there's any particularly good way to wring a telepathic dragon's neck._ "So…why didn't your father take his dragon back with him?"

"He was left for me," Zarekael told her. His tone had taken on a strange dignity, even beyond its usual formality. "It wouldn't do for the first heir of Dar Jerrikhan to have an unsuitable mount."

Meli saw an opening, a way out of the awkward subject at hand, and, hoping to lead him away from it, she took the opportunity. "Did he leave you other things, too?" she asked. "Other things you…remember him by?" _I won't even bother asking what else they remind you of,_ she added silently,_ given that you claim to have betrayed him to his death._

"Of course," Zarekael replied, his tone reasonable.

It was the closest thing she was going to get to an invitation for further exploration, and, since he seemed suddenly to have gone back to being the man she knew, she was cautiously willing to accept the invitation. "If you don't mind my asking…what?"

In reply, he motioned to the sword, javelin, and axe arrayed over and beside the fireplace.

"Family heirlooms?" Meli guessed. He may have come from a military society, but none of the weapons would have been small enough for a child of eleven to bear. Tall he was, and tall he had been, but she knew he had been shorter than Snape when he first arrived, and she doubted that even Snape could have used any of them with ease.

"Yes. They are passed to the first heir."

_Interesting._ It was the most she had yet heard from him about either his family or his home, and since he made no move to stop her questions, she kept asking. "Is there some sort of ceremony that goes with it, then? Something like the passing the command of a ship—except that you pass command of the family?"

Zarekael nodded. "In my House, on the Feast Day of Dwyrin after the first heir turns sixteen, the spear is passed on."

Meli smiled. "I must say, it's a far more interesting rite of passage than we have in Britain," she remarked. "All I got to do when I turned sixteen was buy liquor—" She broke off suddenly as the meaning of the numbers belatedly dawned. For whatever reason, he had kept his true age hidden when he enrolled at Hogwarts; everyone had thought him to be eleven, but his possession of the spear showed that he had to have been at least sixteen.

With that realization came another, far less pleasant, one: Zarekael had paused, his posture no longer conversational and his expression suddenly very hard and calculating. It was the look of a predator analyzing its prey…

No, she corrected herself, it was the look of a cornered animal analyzing the threat to it. She was oddly, if minimally, comforted by the fact that that awful glint had not returned to his eye. He wasn't threatening her; rather, he felt threatened by her, and after a bare second's reflection, it wasn't hard to see why. If she had gotten that fact out of him, however unintentionally on either her part or his, what else could she extract if she put in the effort? His age was of minimal concern, to her or to Voldemort, but there was obviously a great deal more to Zarekael than he wanted anyone knowing—especially Voldemort. If it became known that he had hidden anything of importance from the Dark Lord, Voldemort would summarily kill him.

There was more to it, though; there had to be. On no less than two occasions, Zarekael had known that Meli had reason to kill him, and he'd had no problem with it. Indeed, he had no problem risking his life as a spy in Voldemort's ranks. He had nearly given his life—

To save Snape's.

Snape had to know, then, if not how deep the rabbit's hole delved, at least most of its course and contents. If Zarekael's secrets, or the fact that he even had secrets, became known, so, too, would the fact that Snape was privy to them, and that would result in Snape's death, as well. Zarekael might willingly die himself, but he was fiercely protective of his adoptive father and co-conspirator. That meant that she was also now a threat to Snape, and she was therefore a threat under evaluation.

"You're older than you look," she choked out before she could stop herself, then actually gulped as Zarekael's expression went from calculating to outright murderous. The glint resurfaced, and he shifted subtly in his chair, adopting a position that would allow him to spring at her more easily should he deem it necessary—and, she thought, feeling very ill, the chances of him doing precisely that had skyrocketed in the space of a heartbeat.

She held up her hands, palms outward, in what really amounted to an inadequate way of warding him off. More than flimsy protection, though, the gesture was also an appeal to him not to act rashly; if they could only talk calmly, there might be a way out of this bizarre, godforsaken mess. The silent appeal made no apparent impression on him, however, so she ventured to speak. "I don't ask you why," she said, forcing evenness to her voice. "I know you must have sound reasons for it. I swear to you, it doesn't leave this room—I know what it would mean for you and for Severus, and I don't want that anymore than you do, Ruthvencairn."

She placed a slight emphasis on his second name, hoping that that would get through to him if nothing else did. _We're friends, damn it—don't you _remember she railed silently. _Can't I at least leave here alive and with that knowledge?_

There was a very horrible, long pause as he thought over what she had said, and while she could not identify the precise ideas passing through his mind, she had the impression that they weren't entirely in her favor. The pause lengthened out into a dreadful silence, until Meli, seeing her chances at living fading before her eyes, could stand it no longer.

"Look," she said, shattering the silence with her ragged appeal. "If you don't believe me, obliviate me or use some other memory charm—you have my permission! You can even use the _Damam Dahath_, if that's what it takes!"

It was not a charm to suggest lightly, and both of them knew it. Meli kept it in ready reserve if it was ever needed, but she had only ever used it once, on little Jerreth Llewellyn. It allowed the subject to retain full memory of whatever knowledge he possessed, but it kept him from being able to discuss sensitive information with someone who didn't already know it. It was considered by some (Meli among them) to be a far more practical and humanitarian alternative to the memory-erasing charms, but the Ministry, in typical fashion, did not agree and had outlawed its use for all purposes not deemed appropriate by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

She saw a brief flicker of surprise flit through his eyes, but he quickly damped it down as he turned coldly thoughtful again. Silence reigned while he considered her words, and she had no idea, even to the extent of whether his thoughts were in or out of her favor, of what he might be thinking. At last he took a deep breath and slowly shook his head as his eyes cleared.

"That will not be necessary," he said softly. "You already knew enough to guarantee my death and Severus'."

It was hardly a vote of confidence, but the mere absence of that predatory glint was enough to put her more at ease, at least enough to relax slightly in her seat.

"I will explain this situation to the headmaster, of course," Zarekael continued, "and I _will_ have words with Glaurung."

"Please don't be too hard on Glaurung," Meli said. "The fault here lies with me—I ask too many questions."

As irritated as she was at Zarekael's telepathic dragon, she was able to say that much, at least; his interference had probably saved her life, after all, even if it had provided her with a second opportunity to hang herself. She didn't feel especially charitable toward him, but she certainly didn't want Zarekael slamming the whole of the blame on his shoulders, either.

The apprentice shook his head and leaned back in his chair with a sigh. "No," he countered. "I could have stopped you at any time."

"Then why didn't you?" Meli demanded before she could stop herself or restrain her tone. If he had known the entire time that she was edging closer and closer to deadly territory, why in _bloody_ hell hadn't he set up a fence!

He sighed again, but this time he leaned forward and stood up to step away from her. "You deserved all of the answers I could safely give," he told her quietly, then looked away and actually turned his back to her. "If I had refused to answer, you would have been more suspicious."

Now Meli sighed as the frustration of constantly banging her head against the wall of misunderstanding actually started to give her the beginnings of a headache. "Think for a moment about who you're talking to," she told him. "I rarely talk about where I've come from." She hesitated briefly, but she wanted no further misunderstandings, deadly or otherwise, and the only way she could think of to avoid that outcome was to be as perfectly frank as possible. "My past was hardly rose blossoms and cherries, and from what _very _little I know of your own history, I can't blame you for not wanting to speak about it. It's a perfect excuse to ward off any kind of personal question—all you ever need tell me at any time is that you had rather not answer a question, and I will gladly and without suspicion leave it at that."

His shoulders slumped, and he nodded slowly, then raised a hand to his forehead as if to keep off a headache of his own. "I understand that now," he sighed.

That, she supposed, was the closest he was likely to come to an admission that he had misread her—at least, had it been Snape saying it, that would have been her interpretation. Things being as they were, she wasn't willing to stake her life on making the same assessment of Zarekael, but fortunately, that danger had probably passed.

Probably.

There didn't seem to be a specific direction for the conversation to take, though, and Zarekael appeared to have said his piece for the moment, which placed the ball squarely in her court.

_Damn_. _What the hell do I say now?_ She furiously racked her brains for anything to say, either on the topic at hand or to introduce an entirely new topic, and unfortunately, only one thing came readily to mind.

"Well," she said hesitantly, "while I must admit that I'm almost afraid to bring this up again…it's the only thing I can think of at the moment. I…still need to ask you about…the potion."

He turned around to face her, his expression clinical, interested, professional—anything but familiar and specifically friendly. "Ah, yes," he said analytically. "The potion."

His reply was not exactly encouraging, but she forged ahead anyway. "It's the Varadunatos potion—more specifically its antidote. When used in combination with a spell, Varadunatos prevents the victim from being able to use any wand—until the antidote is taken, wands simply won't respond to him, and at first blush it resembles a power-leeching potion."

"Ah." Zarekael's tone was still perfectly matter-of-fact, devoid of any real inflection. His eyes betrayed a spark of interest, but it was entirely professional in nature; this was still not a conversation between friends. "The magic is still available, but inaccessible. I believe I know the one you mean. Give me a moment."

He walked to a bookshelf on the opposite side of the room from the fireplace and started searching through the books. Zarekael was every bit as much of a bibliophile as either Meli or Snape; his shelves started next to the doorway leading to his bedroom and wound around the room, leaving space only for the entryway, the fireplace, a door leading to a small storage room, and the furniture that happened to be pushed up against a wall. His search was rapid, taking him around from the door to the side of the fireplace nearest Meli. Still not finding it, he stepped across and past her and resumed on the other side. She watched him the entire time, but his mask was firmly in place, and she had no hint of what, other than his search, was passing through his mind.

She stood and cleared her throat. "Zarekael, stop," she implored. "Look at me." She waited until he turned slowly to face her, and only then, when she could see the effect her words produced on him, did she continue. "Forget about the potion for a minute; I need to know." She bit her lip. "Are we still friends?"

Zarekael's eyes widened, and his jaw went slightly slack then suddenly tightened before it could fully drop. "What I want is irrelevant," he replied, his tone slightly edged with mystification. "It's entirely up to you." He lowered his eyes and looked to the side. "I have threatened you not once but twice, and I've shown you exactly what kind of man I am. I've told you before that I'm unworthy of your friendship; now I've shown you."

Meli took a step toward him. "I don't think you're unworthy," she told him.

Zarekael let out a sound of exasperated disbelief.

"You're a loyal and honorable man," she continued. "I know it would have torn you apart to have to hurt me in order to protect Severus."

He blinked, startled.

She smiled wryly. "Yes," she told him. "I realize this is about more than just you—in fact, I know it's not about you at all."

He opened his mouth as if to deny it, then firmly closed it again, effectively returning the ball to her court.

_Damn it,_ she thought again. _At what point does this finally become a conversation—or is the answer never?_ She sighed. "Look," she said aloud. "We can have this one-sided debate until I'm blue in the face and your eyes are bloodshot from all of your blinking, but none of it touches the question." She peered up at him, almost sorrowfully. "Do you still want us to be friends, Ruthvencairn?"

His shoulders slumped, and she caught sight of a deep pain in his eyes. "If you could ask my other friends that question," he replied in an anguished voice, "they would tell you how very much I want to be your friend…but unfortunately, every one of them is dead." And as he spoke those final words, he gave her a significant look that added silently, _Because of me._

Something in those unspoken words struck a resonant chord with her and brought to mind a conversation she'd had with Snape shortly before coming to teach at Hogwarts. _The Fells have had to go into hiding,_ she had said. _Because of me._

"Zarekael," she began hesitantly, not knowing if her next question would come across as profound or foolish, "are _you_ under some manner of bane?"

He blinked again in utter surprise and gave a quick, confused shake of his head, but he took a moment to think before he replied. "No, Meli," he answered at last, with an almost rueful smile. "Though I almost wish I were." Seeing her startled look, he sighed. "I know you will disagree with my view," he explained quietly, "but unlike you, I am responsible for their deaths."

Meli opened her mouth to protest, but, seeing the look of finality on his countenance, she held her silence to think out her own answer. It was clear that nothing she said would change his mind or convince him to think that she, too, bore responsibility for the deaths of her parents and Andrew and the Goldens, and arguing the point would only drag out the conversation further and take it away from the topic at hand. With a reluctance that caused her Gryffindor nature to growl in futile frustration, she forced herself away from that rabbit trail and returned her attention to the true question of the moment.

She hated thinking it—hated herself for thinking it—but his answers led her to believe that he had killed or as good as killed all of his late friends. He had told her before that he betrayed his own father to his death, and he had admitted to murdering the head of the Department of Aurors. As unbelievable as these things had seemed at first, and as difficult as it still was for her to associate those actions with him, after twice witnessing that cold, terrifying glint that surfaced in his eye, she was beginning to believe. It might be that he had been edged repeatedly into situations in which it was necessary to kill one in order to protect another—much as she might have died to protect Snape—and while his conscience would forever plague him for it, he had killed them for whatever greater good he served at the time.

He was, in short, afraid of a recurrence of what had happened twice in the space of an hour, and even more afraid that next time there would be nothing to keep it from escalating to that awful choice. The question, then, was not an issue of whether or not she could befriend such a man but instead whether or not she was willing to befriend him with open eyes.

_I'm not afraid!_ the Gryffindor roared, but she stopped herself from saying it aloud. She _was_ afraid, and she thought it a completely healthy fear. Very few people truly welcomed the prospect of death with open arms and not a doubt or reservation in the world, and, having cheated death once, she wasn't ready just yet for a rematch. Zarekael had spoken truly; she had glimpsed the predatory nature beneath his surface, and it did terrify her…and yet…

And yet, no matter how they parted today, she would still always count him among her friends. Even if he spared her today and was forced by circumstances to kill her tomorrow, she would say that much at least.

"I can't say that I'm not afraid," she told him firmly. "But, like you, I'm willing to accept the risk."

She could tell from the brief flickers through his eyes that he wanted to debate the parallels she had drawn between her bane and his situation, but he, like she, apparently recognized the futility of it. "I will do my best to honor your courage," he stated softly, with a small bow from the waist, after that moment of thought.

Now it was Meli's turn to blink in surprise. "Really?" She had expected more of an argument before he conceded the point.

Zarekael offered her a darkly amused near-smile. "I know better than to argue with a bull-headed Gryffindor who has more bravery than she knows what to do with," he told her sardonically.

She grinned in spite of herself at that characterization.

There was a brief pause, then Zarekael raised his eyebrows mildly. "Now that we've answered your question," he said, "I still haven't found the potion. Would you like me to keep looking?"

"By all means," she replied. "I'll just…sit down, shall I?"

He offered a small smirk. "Please." She sat, and he continued his search, at last finding the book and opening it.

He stepped back to her chair, then hesitated, apparently unsure of whether he should hand it to her or set it on the coffee table. It was a small wonder, really. This was a Dark potion, which meant it was inscribed in a Dark book, and Meli had never encountered a Dark Arts book that wasn't, at the very least, written in blood; some had even been known to have pages of human skin. However, just as she was unhealthily comfortable on Knockturn Alley, she was nearly desensitized to the implements used in such unsavory literature; she held out her hands to take the book, which he gingerly relinquished to her.

This one, she saw, was written on good, old-fashioned parchment, but the ink was indeed animal blood. That, unfortunately, was all she could tell about it.

"It's very lovely," she commented dryly, looking up at Zarekael. "But what does it say?"

The apprentice actually came close to a full smile, if an embarrassed one, then pulled out his wand and muttered something that was neither English nor Latin. The lettering in the book, which had been from a completely unfamiliar alphabet (probably the one used on Zarekael's plane, she reasoned) gave way to Roman lettering and English words. That work finished, he returned to his chair.

Meli consulted the book once more. "Yes, this is exactly what I needed." She looked up, not bothering to mask her relief; Sable Nightshade's temper had failed to cool, with the result that the Auror had started to take full advantage of every opportunity to make Meli's life miserable. "Do you mind if I copy down the antidote?"

He nodded, and she pulled out a pocket notebook and ballpoint pen. It was the work of only a few minutes to write out the antidote, at the end of which time she handed back the book and then offered him the notebook. It was good and well to trust friends, but there was a war going on, and he was a Slytherin and she an honorary one—and the conversation had only confirmed just how tenuous a thing trust truly was.

Zarekael accepted the book, but he handed back her copy with a pointed look. She silently took it back and pocketed it as he reshelved the book.

_And now, having officially worn out my welcome several times over…_ "Well, I had better see to other duties, I suppose," she sighed.

"Very well."

She stood. "Thank you for your help," she said sincerely.

Zarekael, always a perfect gentleman, saw her to the door. "I hope the information is helpful," he told her. "Have a good afternoon, Neshdiana."

She picked up on the subtle emphasis applied to her nickname, and offered him another hawkish look. "You, too…Ruthvencairn."

ooo

**FURTHER AUTHOR'S NOTE:** I apologize for taking so long to re-post this chapter. Snarky and I knew when I first pulled it that it required some, hm, necessary work, but we had no idea until we started at it just how extensive and thorough that work would turn out to be. This particular chapter was created _very_ early on in our concept of "Contented". The Dursleys were originally intended to die around Easter of fifth year, but when other events (such as The Fudge's assassination) crowded in, we moved the scene to Halloween of sixth year. It had been re-drafted several times, but it wasn't until after posting that we realized (courtesy of Snarky's former roommate Nicandra) that we had failed to make behavioral adjustments to account for this being during sixth rather than fifth year. So, shout out to Nicandra for your help and critique (and for beta-re-reading this latest incarnation), thanks to the readers for your patience in waiting for the re-post, and much gratitude to J.K. Rowling for coincidentally releasing her book in the middle of all of this so that the delay wasn't (hopefully) so terribly annoying.  
AE

PS Speaking of which…for anyone who might be wondering if the events of the canonical Book 6 will in any way effect this fanfic, the answer is an emphatic **_NO_**. For anyone who might be wondering if Book 6 has in any way influenced my view of Snape, the answer again is a wholehearted **_NO_**. If you feel that I am pigheaded or in error, feel free to debate me via email. I should warn you, however, that I read books the same way Snape does—I mark them up and annotate them and observe details. My arguments were settled before I finished reading the book, and I am refining them all the time as I have more opportunity to think it out and talk it through. Debate with me if you wish, but at least know what you're getting into.  
Warmest Regards,   
Ancalimë


	19. The Voiskapter

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Just in case anyone out there cares, "Bring a Torch, Jeanette, Isabella" is a _bitch_ to rewrite. It took over a year and something like three or four drafts, but I _think_ it has finally turned out okay. If it didn't quite, feel free to let me know, and I'll see what I can do to tweak it up to specs. Again.  
AE

PS And no, the above is not to be construed as a statement that anyone by the name of Jeanette or Isabella is a bitch. Just the song, and only when it's being butchered—er, I mean, _improved_.

**Chapter 19: The Voiskapter**

**CHRISTMAS 1981, THIRD YEAR**

In the wake of her parents' deaths, Meli could be tricked into spending Christmas with the Fells instead of at Hogwarts, but neither Crim nor anyone else could cheer her up. They all tried in their different ways: Dumbledore slipped her a packet of Pucker-Pops, Sharpie challenged her to a game of wizard's chess and let her win, Crim wrote for her a Tolkien fanfiction about an arm-wrestling contest between Gandalf and Sauron, and even Snape eventually hopped on the bandwagon (sort of) by making their class brew Winsome Draughts.

Unfortunately, it all fell flat. Even the sourest Pucker-Pop still had a sweet aftertaste, with the result that Meli was throwing up most of the night. Sharpie had to work so hard at letting her win that it was obvious to everyone, especially the miserable Meli, that he was losing on purpose. The arm-wrestling contest might have amused her somewhat, but if so, she gave no indication whatsoever. And as for the Winsome Draught…well, the results (and not just for Meli's brew) were enough to thoroughly depress Snape. Precision-chopping grubworms proved too difficult for most, and the rest were tripped up by the timing for adding lacewings. It was a relatively simple potion, really, but stir-crazy third years were disposed to make sillier mistakes in the last week of classes before Christmas holiday. This led to an abundance of a mild vomit-inducer (from poorly chopped grubworms) and harmless but powerful perfume (from lacewings being added too soon).

It was Collum, however, who came up with the closest thing to a blues-buster, and he did it by proving that the poorly-wielded pen is mightier than the sword. He also showed himself to be a bit sneakier than anyone (except perhaps Crim) had yet given him credit for being.

"Hey, Meli," he said, dropping into a chair beside her in the common room one night, just under three weeks before holiday. "I need your help with something."

"You're not going to cheer me up, so don't even bother to try." She flipped a page in her book and did not look up.

"Do I have 'IDIOT' stamped across my forehead?" he retorted. "I didn't tell you to snap out of it, did I? I told you I need your help. In other words, I'm lacking in my abilities, and I'd like you to make use of your skills to compensate for the deficiency."

"Oh."

Collum frowned, then leaned forward to read the title of her book. "_The Christmas Carol,_ eh?" He grinned. "Good. Dickens always puts you in a snarky mood."

"Bah," Meli replied flatly. "Humbug."

He snorted. "Try it again," he suggested. "With more feeling this time."

"Good-bye, Collum."

"No, look, I just need some help with a rhyme!" He looked pleadingly at her. "Please, Meli, you're better than I am with this, and I'd say that if you were the happiest person on earth because it's true!"

She sighed but set aside her book. "Fine. What rhyme?"

He showed her the parchment he was writing on. "It's _stout_ that's giving me fits," he told her.

Meli read the page, then looked up to stare at him. "You have _got_ to be kidding," she said, sounding dumbfounded. "_Why_ are you writing this?"

"I'm going caroling," he answered. "How about, 'Cursed with a nasty case of gout'?" He seemed hopeful.

Meli closed her eyes in evident pain. "Unless you're planning on hexing over two hundred students ahead of time," she pointed out, "no. The point of an insult is that it's true, and truth hurts. I assume you're going to follow this up with another rousing chorus of 'How great our joy'?"

Collum nodded.

"Then why not, 'Not often liking to scream and shout'? That _is_ the thing we like best about them, after all. Besides, you don't want to go on record as rejoicing over _anyone_ having the gout."

"True." He scribbled furiously across the parchment and looked up with a grin. "Thanks!" He stood to leave, then turned back. "By the way, Crim and Sharpie are caroling, too."

"Oh." Her nose was already reburied in her book.

"We thought you might like to come," he continued. "Seeing that you've been nominated to sing lead."

Meli's head shot up at a whiplash-inducing rate. "I've been _what_!" she demanded.

"You're the only soprano!" Collum reminded her. "I can sing bass, and Sharpie does a nice tenor, and Crim's best at harmony, and she's an alto anyway. That leaves you."

"I'm not going caroling," she hissed through her teeth. "And I'm most certainly _not_ singing lead."

"Will you at least help write the songs?"

"No!" She glowered at him, shiny puppy-dog eyes and all. "You're not roping me into anything!"

Collum took the hint and left, but in reality he merely fell back and regrouped; he hadn't actually expected a successful first assault anyway.

It was necessarily slow work, beginning more than a fortnight before Christmas, but Collum eventually got his way. It started with him humming—incessantly—"How Great Our Joy" in the boys' bathroom in Gryffindor. That successfully lodged the tune in the brain of almost every male Gryffindor within the first twenty-four hours, and then _they_ found themselves humming it incessantly everywhere else. Within three days, Meli could not go anywhere in the castle without encountering someone humming the song, and her memory automatically substituted Collum's re-written words for the originals.

Snape was confused and more than a little soured by the whole thing, and he started meting out deplorable punishments for anyone guilty of over-enthusiastic humming—which really meant _any_ humming at all. He was Meli's hero…but then came the final defeat, on the fateful day when she heard _Snape_ humming the song. He stopped as soon as he caught himself, and Meli was sure she saw his eyes widen slightly in horror, but the damage was done.

She tracked down Collum and braced him against the wall. "_What will it take for you to **stop** with that damn song!"_ she all but screamed.

He gave her his best injured-and-innocent look (which was still not very good). "My dear Miss Ebony, I have no idea what you're talking about," he said calmly.

"Punishing me will _not_ make me want to go caroling with you!"

"Punishing you?" Collum echoed. "Who's punishing you?" His expression cleared. "Oh, but speaking of punishments, how does this sound? 'God rest ye merry, Slytherins, let nothing you dismay. There's time for planting cherry bombs beneath the old sod's sleigh before with all your Christmas gifts he quickly makes away.'"

"Splendid," Meli said through her teeth, then stormed away.

Three days later, everyone was humming "God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen".

ooo

Collum had hoped to win by Round Three, but Meli held out through the Slytherin Carol and the Ravenclaw Carol, as well. By the time the Gryffindor Carol (known to everyone else as "Joy to the World") made its rounds, it was three days until holiday, and Meli was considering skipping the Fells' house and spending Christmas in St. Mungo's closed ward.

"I wish you'd at least help him _write_ the bloody things," Crim muttered irritably. "The best he can do is 'Joy to the world, Gryffindor rules'. It's going to be pathetic, but I can't do any better. Have some pity on me, at least—I have to sing the awful thing!"

"No, you don't," Meli countered. "You could always resign in protest."

"Except that the caroling was my idea," Crim told her glumly. "Neither one of them would ever let me hear the end of it if I quit."

Meli rolled her eyes. "_That_ sounds familiar," she sighed sourly.

"Mm."

They sat in silence a moment, then the Gryffindor sighed again. "And I don't suppose Sharpie's much good for moral support?"

The other girl snorted. "It's Sharpie," she replied. "What do you think?"

After over a fortnight of being worn down by over-enthusiastic humming, Meli's defenses were ill-equipped to deal with a friend in despair. The humming, she now realized, had not been the actual attack but rather a series of feints that kept her from recognizing the true weapon: Crimson Fell, her own best friend, who probably had no idea that Collum had set her up as such.

"It's really that bad?" Meli asked, her shoulders slumping in defeat.

Crim nodded, but her eyes suddenly widened in horrified realization. _"Don't_ say it!" she snapped.

"I'll go caroling with you," Meli said, in defiance of the order.

"You're going to let my snot-nosed would-be Hufflepuff of a brother _win!_"

Meli met her friend's eye and slowly grinned. "No. I'm going to give up one battle and win the war," she replied. "Do you have any of his lyric sheets?"

"In my satchel. He gave us copies." Crim looked narrowly at her. "What, exactly, are you going to do?" she asked suspiciously.

"I'm going to rewrite every single one of them so they're actually worthy of being heard," Meli answered. "Except, possibly, the first verse of the Slytherin Carol—"

"Which _I_ wrote _anyway_," Crim interrupted.

"And then I'm going to bide my time until seventh year," Meli continued reflectively, "maybe write another carol for each House…and I'll definitely write one from scratch in the meantime. And by hook or by crook, Collum will sing it with the rest of us."

Crim grinned, catching her drift immediately. "Professor Snape," she said, clearly savoring the words. "_Brilliant!"_

ooo

It required two days of extremely rapid work to rewrite four carols nearly from scratch, but Meli pushed herself and got it done before Collum had even a faint hint that she'd capitulated. His awareness of victory was tragically short-lived, however, for Meli caught him by the chin and looked him dangerously in the eye.

"I'm doing you a favor this time, Fell," she told him grimly. "And actually, I think you owe me anyway. I'll be in touch with you when I want a repayment."

Her fellow Gryffindor nodded jerkily, then glanced at his sister, rubbing his chin ruefully. "Does that mean I overstepped?" he asked in an undertone.

Crim snorted out a laugh. "Collum, if you don't know the answer to that," she muttered back, "I don't see that my telling you will help. Why don't you take the rest of the evening to contemplate your misspent life—before Meli decides to collect a pound of your flesh?"

He did take that evening, as well as a large portion of the following day, and it was observed by a number of people that he was a bit preoccupied at dinner. The students were due to leave the next morning for the train, though, so he was easily lumped in with everyone else whose mind was on going home.

After dinner, the students returned to their Houses, and the Skulkers met outside the library. Once all four were present and accounted for, they pulled out sheaves of parchment and made a beeline for Ravenclaw Tower, singing the proper words to "Frosty the Snowman" as they went. They finished that song just as they came to a halt outside Ravenclaw's common room, the door of which was conveniently open just then (and it was soon propped open once the Ravenclaws heard what the Skulkers were about). The Skulkers bowed in unison, then began a new song:

_O come, all ye Ravenclaws,  
It's time for Christmas holiday!  
So leave ye, oh, leave ye  
Your textbooks here.  
Go hang your stockings,  
Have a rousing snowball fight,  
But please forbear to study,  
Oh, please refrain from studying,  
Oh, please neglect to study,  
For Christmas is here!_

_O come, all ye Ravenclaws!  
Spread your Christmas cheer!  
Splurge on the eggnog and  
The butterbeer.  
Research the best recipes  
For peppermint and marzipan,  
But leave the Potions here,  
Oh, leave your Charms book here,  
Oh, leave Transfiguration here,  
For it's Christmas-time!_

_O come, all ye Ravenclaws!  
We bid you Happy Christmas,  
And please have a merry,  
Stress-free holiday this year.  
Then, when you come back  
Calm, relaxed, and joyful,  
Remember your friendly Skulkers,  
Recall your cheerful Skulkers,  
Please thank your beloved Skulkers  
For their kind, sage advice!_

Had they not made their performance so obviously tongue-in-cheek, the "friendly", "cheerful", and "beloved" Skulkers might have found themselves the targets of a few nasty hexes from some of the more defensive Ravenclaws. As it was, however, their finale was greeted with scattered laughter, a few good-natured jibes, and four very well-aimed popcorn balls, which they neatly caught before going on their way.

A few of the more curious (or bored) Ravenclaws followed as the quartet proceeded to Gryffindor Tower, this time singing "Jingle Bells" They also used the proper words with this song, but Crim and Meli kept breaking off to give editorial comments, which included but were by no means limited to, "How many _bloody_ times do they think they have to tell us it's a one-horse open sleigh!"

Upon their arrival at Gryffindor, Collum whispered the password to the Fat Lady, then himself propped open the door to the common room, allowing all within to hear the carol dedicated to themselves:

_Joy to the world!  
Christmas is here.  
Let Gryffindor lead the way!  
In snowball fights  
And iceball wars  
And caroling  
And merry roars,  
Let's show them how it's done!  
Let's show them how it's done!  
Let's show them, let's show them  
How Christmas is done!_

_Joy to the world!  
There's paper to shred  
And gifts to find beneath!  
There's biscuits to bake  
And candy to make  
And wreaths to hang  
And drums to bang!  
Let Gryffindor lead the way  
Atop a charging sleigh!  
Let Gryffindor,  
Gryffindor lead the way!_

_"Joy to the world!"  
The Skulkers cry.  
Oh, joy to one and all!  
May Gryffindors have  
A Happy Yule  
With lots of gifts  
And many duels  
And of course some Christmas cheer!  
Oh, naturally, Christmas cheer!  
Oh, plenty and copious  
Christmas cheer!_

These wishes were greeted with a number of "merry roars", and the Skulkers added some gingerbread to their pockets and a few Gryffindors to their parade. Now they turned toward the dungeons, and at Meli's insistence (though only Crim had been given a reason for it), they sang the proper words to "Bring a Torch, Jeanette, Isabella", finishing that carol outside of Slytherin. Crim obligingly whispered the password and propped open the door to her own common room, after which the Skulkers aired the Slytherin Carol.

_God rest ye merry, Slytherins!  
Let nothing you dismay;  
There's time for planting cherry bombs  
Beneath the old sod's sleigh  
Before with all your Christmas gifts  
He quickly makes away.  
Oh, tidings of comfort and joy,  
Comfort and joy!  
Oh, tidings of comfort and joy!_

_God rest ye merry, Slytherins!  
Rack up your lumps of coal.  
Pure carbon's good in potions that  
Have uses very droll,  
Like making little Hufflepuffs  
Want to crawl into a hole.  
Oh, tidings of comfort and joy,  
Comfort and joy!  
Oh, tidings of comfort and joy!_

_God rest ye merry, Slytherins!  
We bid you Happy Yule.  
Have lots of fun this Christmastide,  
And let this be your rule:  
A sneak well-snuck's as valuable  
As a rare and costly jewel.  
Oh, tidings of comfort and joy,  
Comfort and joy!  
Oh, tidings of comfort and joy!_

This concert earned them a number of smiles from the Slytherins, as well as a round of butterbeers, and when they left, the more observant Slytherins having noticed which Houses were represented in the parade and which was not, the Skulkers gained a large delegation from Slytherin House. The Skulkers, doing a marvelous job of not noticing this minor fact, continued on their way, singing "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" (with the proper words _largely_ intact; Crim couldn't resist changing the afflicted animal's name to Randolph the Brown-Nosed Reindeer, in transparent and spiteful tribute to a Hufflepuff sycophant well-known and hated by all).

The Skulkers and their sizable following of disciples halted outside the Hufflepuff common room. The Hufflepuffs were obviously quite ignorant of the carol-singers' mission, for, rather than battening down the hatches and barricading the door, they had actually left it wide open in order to share with the school their House Christmas party.

The traveling audience leaned against the wall opposite Hufflepuff's entrance, smirking in anticipation; within the common room, several curious heads turned to face the foursome framed in their doorway.

And the foursome in question happily answered their curiosity.

_Oh, how we love dear Hufflepuff,  
Strong and as sweet as marshmallow fluff.  
How great our joy (great our joy).  
Joy, joy, joy! (Joy, joy, joy!)  
Oh, how we love dear Hufflepuff!_

_They can't compete for cleverness,  
Sneakiness, courage, or brazenness.  
How great our joy (great our joy).  
Joy, joy, joy! (Joy, joy, joy!)  
Oh, how we love dear Hufflepuff!_

There were sudden, unfriendly rustlings in the Hufflepuff common room, and some of the Skulkers' audience members shifted in response, either to the lyrics, which were rather ungracious for the season, or to the apparent threatening movements of some of the Hufflepuffs. Unruffled, the carol-singers continued.

_Loyal and true and kind and stout,  
Not often liking to scream and shout,  
How great our joy (great our joy).  
Joy, joy, joy! (Joy, joy, joy!)  
Oh, how we love dear Hufflepuff!_

_Without them our school wouldn't be the same;  
There'd be no easy-won quidditch games.  
How great our joy (great our joy).  
Joy, joy, joy! (Joy, joy, joy!)  
Oh, how we love dear Hufflepuff!_

Several of the Ravenclaws bristled, while most of the Slytherins snickered knowingly. There were outraged exclamations now from the Hufflepuffs, particularly the quidditch players, who were feeling a bit sensitive about their abysmal record that year. The Skulkers, however, had not quite done.

_And so Happy Christmas to all of you  
From all the Skulkers tried and true.  
How great our joy (great our joy).  
Joy, joy, joy! (Joy, joy, joy!)  
Oh, how we love dear Hufflepuff!_

As if sensing her cue, an irate Sprout now appeared on the scene and, mistaking Meli for the ringleader, seized her by the arm and ordered the others to follow as she dragged the girl down the corridor. To her chagrin, however, the Skulkers had planned for this, and Meli raised her volume to sing out one final stanza:

_Away to detention now we go!  
Parting is such sweet sorrow!  
How great our joy (great our joy).  
Joy, joy—**OW!**_

Sprout had angrily jerked at the troublesome student's arm just then. The other Skulkers, however, simply took their cue, shrugged, and, without missing a beat, echoed:

_Joy, joy—**OW!**_

Now Meli planted her heels and brought the steaming Sprout to a dead stop. She drew herself up, placing a hand on her breastbone, and in a high, thin voice uttered the final shot:

_Oh, how we love dear Hufflepuff!_

Sprout dragged her around the corner, and the other Skulkers followed. A number of Slytherins applauded in their wake, and the last sound Meli heard from the scene was the resounding slam of the door to the Hufflepuff common room.

ooo

Sprout deposited the Skulkers in her office, warded the doors against everything short of an atomic blast, and seethed off in search of the Heads of Slytherin and Gryffindor.

"I wash my hands of them!" she fumed to Snape and McGonagall. "I leave them to you—I don't trust myself not to _kill them_ _all_!" She then stormed away to comfort her poor, traumatized Hufflepuffs (as she called them).

Snape and McGonagall exchanged looks.

"They'll have to be punished, of course," the former said slowly.

"Severely," the latter agreed.

Neither one moved.

"It _was_ a very cruel thing to do," McGonagall commented after a long pause.

Snape nodded. "I don't think any of them would be intentionally cruel, though," he replied. "Well, perhaps Pierce would," he added reluctantly.

"And Collum Fell might," McGonagall conceded, also reluctantly. "But not Meli Ebony."

"Or Crimson Fell."

They exchanged looks again.

"I suppose it was a very cruel song," Snape said unenthusiastically.

"But clever, in its way," McGonagall murmured, after glancing around to be sure that no one was about.

Snape raised his eyebrows and looked a touch amused. "Why, Minerva," he drawled, "you're not saying you've actually _thought_ some of those things, are you?"

McGonagall shifted her eyes guiltily. "Not at all," she replied, a little too quickly. "But that's not the point. The point is that the Skulkers must be shown the error of their ways."

"Absolutely," Snape agreed, smirking. "So what do you propose?"

Silence fell and remained for a very long time.

McGonagall at last cleared her throat. "We could give them a lecture," she suggested lamely. "I'd make them write essays about intolerable cruelty, but without exception, they'd write about the assignment rather than their actions."

Snape raised his eyebrows. "That's how they handle detention?"

"They consider detentions holidays," McGonagall grumbled.

"In that case," Snape mused, "it would probably be a punishment _not_ to give them detention."

"Yes, but I think a lecture would go in one ear and out the other," McGonagall pointed out.

"For the boys, perhaps," Snape allowed thoughtfully. "But I think Miss Ebony and Miss Fell might be made to understand eventually. At the very least they'll consider a well-worded argument."

McGonagall sighed decisively. "A lecture, then."

"And a catastrophic point dock," Snape added. "Two hundred each?"

McGonagall blinked. "I think that's a bit severe," she told him. "Two hundred per House, perhaps—it _was_ a very clever song."

Snape narrowed his eyes in approximation of a faint smile. "Agreed."

She looked suspiciously at him. "You're going along with this just a little too easily, Severus," she observed.

"Even Ebenezer Scrooge was touched by the Christmas spirit, Minerva," he replied sardonically. "Shall we go deliver our lecture and have done with it? Otherwise, I may be influenced to go hanging stockings and decking the halls or even, God forbid, a-wassailing."

McGonagall tried—and failed—to repress a smile. "Oh, we can't have that," she said. "By all means, let's go see to the lecture."

ooo

**PRESENT: EARLY NOVEMBER**

Meli took the opportunity of already being in the dungeons to stop by the Potions room, in hopes of meeting up with Snape. She hadn't seen him since encountering him in the Marauders' company a week before, and she hadn't had a friendly conversation with him since before the discovery of Tinúviel Everett's Penseive over a month ago. While no one had specifically said anything about an improvement in his mood, she considered that enough time had passed to render him safe company again, and in any case, his couldn't be any more dangerous than the company she had just left. She needed a distraction after the near-catastrophic conversation with Zarekael just now.

Snape was not in his office as she had expected but rather in his and Zarekael's private work room—a heavily-warded adjoining the office, in which they brewed some of the more critical potions for the Order, as well as a few illegal ones for Voldemort—and she found him watching the contents of a cauldron with particular intensity. He did not look up as she came in, but he was aware of her entrance, for he slowly raised his left hand in what might have been a greeting.

"Would you do me a favor?" he asked absently.

Meli suppressed a smile. "Of course."

"I need to watch this to ensure that it doesn't boil over, but I've just discovered that I didn't bring enough adder fangs," he told her. "There's a box of them in the bottom drawer of the desk in my office. Would you be kind enough to bring them to me?"

She grinned. "Certainly," she replied, then hesitated as something occurred to her. "Er…you don't mind me being in your desk?" _I've already nearly been killed once today,_ she added silently. _I'm not really in a hurry to invite another potentially lethal situation._

His expression altered subtly, but not dangerously. "It's not kept in a place accessible to the students," he countered sardonically. "You need have no fear of disturbing anything in there."

Meli shrugged, but she had no reason to doubt Snape's words—he was hardly the sort of person to toss a private item like a Penseive into his desk and then forget entirely about it. She went into his office confidently, therefore, and found the indicated drawer.

It pulled out with difficulty, though, and by the time she had it open far enough to look for the adder fangs, the contents had shifted around and she found herself picking through a jumble of boxes and packets, most of which were devoted to potions work but some of which were not.

She heard an odd noise amid the various items, like the sound of a glass ball rolling about.

_That's all I need,_ she reflected. _First I mess up his drawer, then I manage to break something useful while I'm cleaning it up._

She proceeded more carefully, re-stacking boxes and pushing packets to one side, and when she saw the adder fangs and reached out to pick them up, her hand brushed against something smooth and cold.

It didn't stay cold for long, though; at her touch, it flared warmly to life, and she heard the last thing she would ever have expected: music. Meli listened for a full minute in shock, for she recognized not only the tune but the lyrics and the voices singing them.

The Skulkers, for the briefest of moments, had come back to life.

She waited for the song to play out, then picked up its source—a small sphere just larger than a Remembrall and composed, to all appearances, of frosted glass. It was a Voiskapter, the wizard's equivalent of a tape recorder, and it was nearly eleven years old.

The box in her other hand reminded her of her original errand, and she stood, closing the drawer with her knee as she did. She carried both the adder fangs and the Voiskapter into the work room with her, a smirk securely fixed on her face.

"Why, Severus," she remarked dryly, "I had no idea that little Christmas carol made such an impression on you. You kept our present all these years?"

Snape spared a glance up from the cauldron and returned her smirk as he accepted the adder fangs from her. "Of course I did," he replied. "How often does one have a song written just for him?"

Meli let out a laugh. "Well, I hope you don't mind my having found it," she told him. "It rolled past me in the drawer—which I tidied up as best I could. I made a bit of a mess—sorry."

He shrugged slightly. "I ought to have warned you that the drawer sticks," he answered. "And of all people, you're the one I least mind finding that particular curio."

She set the Voiskapter down on his worktable, carefully making sure that it wouldn't roll and wouldn't be in his way. "Do you know the story of how that recording came to be?" she asked. "I've no doubt you probably figured it out on your own."

"Half a moment." Snape, his eyes never leaving the cauldron, picked up a vial of some nasty-looking green fluid and eased five drops of it into the brew. The potion, which had been frothing violently up until that point, suddenly calmed down to a reasonable simmer. "Mewlip ichor," he informed her, looking up with a half-smile. "Vile stuff, but it works wonders in certain potions." He raised his eyebrows. "So there's a story behind this particular song, is there?"

Meli smirked. "Well, again, you probably know already," she replied. "It all started with the carol-singing third year."

"Hm. Yes." Snape narrowed his eyes in amusement. "You know, of course, that Sprout has never forgiven you for that?"

She snorted. "The only reason she forgave you and Minerva is that she doesn't know the two of you let us off," she retorted. "The poor dear actually thinks you punished us!"

"It must have been quite the effective punishment," Snape returned dryly. "The next time around you wrote an extra carol just for me."

"Our thoughts exactly." Meli fell silent a moment, then shook her head. "I still can't believe you kept this. We sound like chipmunks."

"_You_ sounded like a chipmunk," he corrected. "The others sounded perfectly normal. Which reminds me," he added, "have you always been able to sing as you did at your funeral?"

Meli smiled secretively. "I suppose that's something you'll always wonder," she answered, arching an evil eyebrow.

ooo

**CHRISTMAS 1985, SEVENTH YEAR**

The rest of the school had next to no warning that the Skulkers were plotting again. In point of fact, only Snape had anything even vaguely resembling a warning, and it was so slight that even he, the Head of Slytherin House, could not fault himself for missing it.

The Skulkers' first move was, unintentionally, to give their favorite teacher a nasty scare. At the end of his last class of the day, Snape went to retrieve some parchments from his classroom desk and found a gift-wrapped cube topped with a tasteful bow.

The Potions master knowing of no one offhand that would choose to deliver a gift in this manner (Dumbledore knew better, and no one else cared), he was more than a little alarmed. Such a package, in his experience, showed great possibility of _not_ being friendly. With that in mind, Snape drew his wand and levitated the package into one of his heavier cauldrons, used for brewing dangerous or touchy potions, then spent the next three hours subjecting it to every single hex- and jinx-detection test he could think of, and several more that he looked up for the purpose.

Once satisfied that the thing wouldn't blow up in his face, Snape carried it into his office, opened it, and stared, dumbfounded, at its contents. It was the most anticlimactic item he could ever have envisioned: a Voiskapter.

_Rather a fancy way to deliver a threat,_ he thought sourly, then reached into the box and gingerly pulled it out.

The crystal sphere warmed at his touch, and silver, blue, and purple mist stirred within it. Snape listened in complete shock as four well-known voices formed the four-part harmony of "Bring a Torch, Jeanette, Isabella", though with thoroughly altered lyrics:

_Bring a torch—the lights have gone out,  
For Meli has had insomnia again.  
She blew up her cauldron,  
Collapsed half the classroom,  
And Professor Snape is at his wits' end  
Again. She's left her mark,  
Outdone herself,  
And given gray hairs again!_

_Bring a chemist to tremble in awe,  
For Collum has stocked his collection again.  
It soon will be used in a  
Dreadful experiment,  
Wreaking pure havoc and losing him points,  
For Professor Snape will not let him off  
The hook. Oh, no,  
He won't let him off at all._

_Bring a strait-waistcoat; Flint has gone mad,  
For Crimson has helped with his potion again.  
Who knew that mayonnaise  
Would do that to bats' wings?  
She's scrubbing the floors, detention again,  
For Professor Snape has given the chance for fun.  
He has. She's  
Serving detention again._

_Bring some duct tape to save Sharpie's life,  
For he has been trying to wax snarky again.  
He might have survived it,  
He might have been spared,  
But he is an amateur. Professor Snape  
Will take a pro's pride in putting him in his place.  
He will, for  
He is the snarkiest there is!_

_Bring the wassail and bring a large tankard.  
Wish Happy Christmas to Professor Snape!  
He's been awfully patient,  
Considering our failings;  
If only for that, he's earned a long holiday,  
And so we  
Bid you a Merry Christmas, sir,  
And a Happy and Skulking New Year!_

The song faded away, the Voiskapter went dormant, and still Snape stared at it, not at all comprehending what he'd just heard. It was one thing for fellow teachers to wish him Happy Christmas out of a sort of grudging sense of duty; it was slightly different for Dumbledore to speak the words, for though Snape sensed that they were said in pity, at least they were honestly meant.

But for students to go out of their way to _say_ Happy Christmas—much less to write a five-stanza carol toward that end—was unprecedented, unlooked-for, unexpected, and…well, unusually welcome.

No one, least of all Snape, would at that moment have characterized his mood as "warm and fuzzy", but his earlier fear and paranoia were lost in the wake of something like gratitude. What he held in his hand was not just a Voiskapter; it was the touch of grace—unlooked-for, but utterly precious.

He slowly and carefully returned it to its box, then walked to the desk in his office, where he opened the bottom drawer and placed the Voiskapter reverently inside.

Some things were far too precious to be thrown away or even just set aside; this was one of them.

ooo

The rest of the school received its own portent of things to come the following morning at breakfast. It was the last day of classes before Christmas holiday, and no one's mind was on learning, but neither was anyone's mind on merriment; there was, after all, still a very long day ahead. The Skulkers, however, were, as always, the exception to any particular rule.

Ten minutes into breakfast, the four pranksters came leaping and twirling through the doorway of the Great Hall, dancing and singing and generally making a merry little spectacle of themselves. Meli and Crim were waving tambourines in time to the song, while Collum and Sharpie kept time with obnoxiously loud sleigh bells, but none of the jingling noises could drown out the lyrics, which they sang at the top of their lungs to the tune of "I Saw Three Ships Come Sailing In":

_I saw the Skulkers prancing in  
To Hufflepuff, to Ravenclaw.  
I saw the Skulkers dancing in  
To Gryffindor in the morning._

_The Hufflepuffs were packing bags  
To meet the train, to meet the train.  
The Hufflepuffs were readying bags  
To meet the train in the morning._

_The Slytherins slipped past Gryffindor  
On Christmas Eve, on Christmas Eve.  
We'll see what Father Christmas is in  
For Christmas Day in the morning._

_The Gryffindors had a Happy Yule  
On Christmas Eve, on Christmas Day,  
And challenged Santa to a duel  
On Christmas Day in the morning._

_The Ravenclaws were caroling  
On the eve of Christmas holiday.  
The Ravenclaws still were wassailing  
When holiday started next morning._

_The faculty were having fun  
On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day.  
The teachers knew their work was done  
For Christmas Day in the morning!_

Having finished this song and dance recital, the Skulkers pranced back out the way they had come, leaving a pensive dead silence in their wake. No one, especially the Hufflepuffs, had forgotten their Christmas antics four years before, and now that it appeared that the Skulkers hadn't, either, no one—especially the Hufflepuffs—wanted to consider what was coming next.

The Skulkers let them stew over that question all day before finally showing their cards after dinner that evening, at which point they sashayed from the library to Ravenclaw Tower, singing "Hark, the Herald Angels Sing" in beautiful four-part harmony.

The Ravenclaws, who had more or less been expecting them, were gathered in their common room with the door propped open, and the Skulkers found that their audience was quite captivated _before_ they started singing, if only because everyone was wondering what would come out of their mouths next.

Meli and Crim traded smirks, then nodded to the boys and began:

_Here we come a-wassailing  
To Ravenclaw so true.  
Here we come a-singing  
To bring some joy to you.  
Leave your books when you go.  
When you come back, don't you know  
They'll still be here and ready to be read,  
Oh, yes, indeed!  
They'll still be here and ready to be read._

_Now go forth from Ravenclaw  
To have a Happy Yule.  
Be studious at rest,  
Relaxation, and renewal.  
"Happy Christmas to you,"  
All the cheerful Skulkers croon,  
And we bid you a Happy New Year, too,  
Oh, yes we do!  
And we bid you a Happy New Year, too!_

_Come with us a-caroling  
And spreading Christmas cheer.  
Ravenclaws have lovely voices  
All of Hogwarts ought to hear.  
No one studies hard as you,  
But you have marvelous parties, too,  
So we know you know how to have some fun,  
Most certainly!  
So join in, and let's show them how it's done!  
Come caroling!  
Oh, join in, and let's show them how it's done!_

Several of the Ravenclaws did just that, so the Skulkers picked up a respectable following right from the off. They led the way, not to Gryffindor as many of their followers had expected, but to Slytherin, and instead of singing a song, proper or altered, along the way, three of the Skulkers fell silent and allowed Crim to preach rather a lengthy homily. It was not a particularly religious homily by any means but rather a rehashing of one of her projects from a prior Christmas: a recitation of everything that was wrong with Father Christmas.

That prior project had earned her a nasty detention from Filch, but no one remembered that. All anyone recalled about Christmas the Skulkers' fifth year was Ninety-Five Theses Against the Fur-Trimmed Troll, which Crim had nailed to the Great Hall doors, largely for entertainment but ostensibly in a thought-out protest.

On finding them, Dumbledore had merely pointed out the irony that a Roman Catholic was carrying on in the Lutheran tradition, to which Crim had primly replied that Luther had done a passable job, but it remained for a Catholic to show the world how it was properly done—and in any case, she pointed out, Luther had considered himself a Catholic to the end.

So now, two years later, she regaled them all with the list of Father Christmas' many and sundry evils, which included but were by no means limited to: breaking and entering, theft of gifts (which he then replaced under the tree as if they were originally from him rather than the giver), exploitation of animals and house elves, failure to travel with a valid passport, failure to clear customs at borders, breaking of necessary and proper speed limits, and permitting the composition of any number of horrible songs about himself which were then inflicted on the world—most notably "Santa Baby", which sent Crim into near-convulsions every time she heard it.

The vocal Skulker delivered this speech with an amazingly stable deadpan, but her audience was in stitches by the time they ended their march to the dungeons, and the carol-singers had to pause for a good five minutes while the Ravenclaws laughed themselves out. Once they were sure of being heard, Sharpie opened the door to Slytherin, and the concert resumed, this time to the tune of "He Has Come, the Holy Child".

_Winter graces the frosty ground.  
Light the Yule log  
And make your cherry bombs.  
Santa comes to Slytherin House.  
Hie we away to waylay his sleigh!_

_No one sees what a problem it is  
That Santa takes what we want to give.  
Then the nasty fur-capped troll  
Leaves us only lumps of coal!  
Winter graces the frosty ground.  
Light the Yule log  
And make your cherry bombs.  
Santa comes to Slytherin House.  
Hie we away to waylay his sleigh!_

_Skulkers know just how it feels  
When the prat our presents steals.  
Under one banner now unite,  
And back to Santa we'll take the fight!  
Winter graces the frosty ground.  
Light the Yule log  
And make your cherry bombs.  
Santa comes to Slytherin House.  
Hie we away to waylay his sleigh!_

_A happy holiday to you all  
As you bring about the old sod's downfall.  
Have your fill of holiday cheer,  
And we'll see you all back at school next year!  
Winter graces the frosty ground.  
Light the Yule log  
And make your cherry bombs.  
Santa comes to Slytherin House.  
Hie we away to waylay his sleigh!_

Coming as it did directly after Crim's sermon, this carol could not help but elicit a healthy round of applause from the Ravenclaws, and the Slytherins, who had heard her grumbling in-House about Father Christmas for a week beforehand, also parted with several amused cheers. The Skulkers added another dozen or so to their caravan, then took the long way out of the dungeons, singing the proper words to "Bring a Torch, Jeanette, Isabella" as they marched past the Potions classroom. They followed this up with a sulky rendition of "Sleigh Ride", which Meli considered the bane of her winter existence and rather enjoyed butchering, ending in front of the Fat Lady, who looked as if she couldn't decide what she thought of the whole thing. She did, however, obligingly open the door when given the password by Collum.

"The tune," Crim announced, turning to the crowd behind her, "is 'Angels We Have Heard on High'. If you know the proper counter-melody, feel free to join in—just be sure to use the syllable _ah_, as we've improved the words a bit."

There were several snickers, which the Skulkers ignored, choosing instead to launch into the New Gryffindor Carol.

_Gryffindors unite to cry,  
"Christmas time is here again!"  
Joyous songs reach to the sky;  
Let the holiday begin!  
Oh! O-o-o-o-oh, o-o-o-o-oh, o-o-o-o-oh, we sing,  
Let the Christmas bells ring!  
Oh! O-o-o-o-oh, o-o-o-o-oh, o-o-o-o-oh, we sing,  
Let the Christmas bells ring!_

_Charge we home to see the gifts  
Hid from Father Christmas' eyes.  
If he even one doth lift,  
We'll greet him with a nasty surprise.  
Oh! O-o-o-o-oh, o-o-o-o-oh, o-oh, we'll kick off the Yule  
With a happy duel!  
Oh! O-o-o-o-oh, o-o-o-o-oh, o-oh, we'll kick off the Yule  
And the light-fingered fur-clad fool!_

_Come with us, dear Gryffindors,  
As Ravenclaws and Slyth'rins have,  
Caroling from door to door,  
Spreading cheer and happy laughs.  
Oh! O-o-o-o-oh, o-o-o-o-oh, Happy Gryffindor Noël,  
From Pierce and Ebony and Fells!  
Oh! O-o-o-o-oh, o-o-o-o-oh, Happy Gryffindor Noël,  
The Skulkers wish you merry and well!_

They took rather a long break at Gryffindor, due first to a round of cider (which extended even to the Ravenclaws and Slytherins, most of whom had broken off in mid-serenade to snicker), then to a round of questions about what was coming next. The Skulkers skillfully evaded the latter and quite enjoyed the former, and between the four of them they sparked enough diabolical curiosity to draw most of Gryffindor out for a sing-along on the way to Hufflepuff.

On their arrival, they found that substantial delegations from Ravenclaw and Slytherin were waiting for them—as were, they could not help but see, all four Heads of House and Dumbledore himself.

Sprout was already an unattractive shade of purple, and Flitwick was an unhealthy shade of pink, though it was clear to all that he was trying to suppress laughter while his counterpart was attempting to repress violence. McGonagall's jaw was painfully clenched, and none of the Skulkers could be certain that it wasn't a grin she was biting down on. Snape, by contrast, made no effort to hide his smirk, and while Dumbledore dutifully gave them a warning look, they saw that his eyes were twinkling madly.

Now it was Meli who turned to address the assembly, while Crim rapped at Hufflepuff's door. "Nine words that will be of great importance to you all in the near future," she told them. "'Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la'."

The Hufflepuffs, predictably did _not_ open the door, but they were also unaware that there were five teachers in the vicinity, at least one of whom had no need to hide his interest in the New Hufflepuff Carol, and all of whom possessed the passwords to all of the common rooms.

Snape had contrived to stand near enough to the door that, while Sprout could not hear him speak, the door could, and within a few seconds of the Skulkers' first failure, the door creaked open, to the discernible dismay of everyone in the common room beyond.

The Skulkers knew better than to tip the hand that fed them, so, without a look at Snape, but with innocent smiles to Sprout, they commenced.

_Christmas comes to Hufflepuff  
Fa-la-la-la-la la-la-la-la  
Biscuits, gifts, and all that stuff  
Fa-la-la-la-la la-la-la-la  
Go we now to meet the train  
Fa-la-la-la-la la-la-la-la  
Singing out the sweet refrain  
Fa-la-la-la-la la-la-la-la_

_Speak we now in generalities  
Fa-la-la-la-la la-la-la-la  
Lest you question our morality  
Fa-la-la-la-la la-la-la-la  
Though we would like a detention  
Fa-la-la-la-la la-la-la-la  
Instead we'd prob'ly get a suspension  
Fa-la-la-la-la la-la-la-la_

To judge by the look on the now-eggplant-colored Sprout's countenance, the Skulkers were probably going to get either or both of those punishments anyway if the Head of Hufflepuff House could arrange it. Fortunately, Dumbledore's growing smile assured them that she probably would not be able to make those particular arrangements.

_Have a Happy Hufflepuff Christmas  
Fa-la-la-la-la la-la-la-la  
Conducting badger holiday business  
Fa-la-la-la-la la-la-la-la  
Skulkers now give you a present  
Fa-la-la-la-la la-la-la-la_

Here the Skulkers paused and looked directly at Sprout, wide and not entirely sane grins on their faces. Then, at a signal from Meli, the four of them shouted at the top of their lungs:

**_Today_**_ we won't say anything unpleasant!_

And then they led almost the entire school in a rousing, final chorus of:

_Fa__-la-la-la-la la-la-la-la!_

ooo

Sprout did, indeed, make a worthy effort at having the Skulkers punished for the carol, but when Dumbledore pointed out that nothing even remotely insulting had been said in the course of it—and the other three Heads of House backed him in that assessment—she ungraciously withdrew her petition. From that time on, she had nothing civil to say to any of the Skulkers, and years later, some of them had separate opportunities to observe that her treatment of them near the end of their time at Hogwarts was really not so different from their most admired teacher's treatment of the Boy Who Lived.

Of course, as Crim would readily have pointed out, the Skulkers had at least earned what they got.

ooo

**FURTHER AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Thanks go out to Omaha Werewolf for your review. I see what you mean about leaving some mystery for the reader to figure out; that's something I admit I have trouble doing. It's not so much that I specifically _want_ to spell everything out, but I have this fear, probably irrational, of skipping over something that's actually important and leaving the reader squashed flat on the highway wondering where the hell that lorry came from. I had that happen all the time when I was a child (ever seen a piss-poor movie interpretation of an Agatha Christie novel? I saw a few too many at a formative age), so I guess it stuck with me. However, I will take this to heart; I promise for the future: more mystery, less deduction. Of course, admittedly, I sort of have an advantage here because I think this is the last time, at least for awhile, that Meli feels the need to play Sherlock Holmes.

And as far as brevity goes…well, this, being a rather long chapter, might not be the best place to address that, but what the hell. I actually am trying very hard to shave down many of these scenes, but I have recently discovered two disadvantages: Snarky also likes Dickens, so neither of us really catches everything we could…and I'm simultaneously working on another story in which I went way too far with keeping it brief and now have to expand. So between having a Dickensian collaborator and being in the middle of an expanding spree, I'm going a bit schizo. However, again, I promise to do better.

Silverthreads- Thanks also for your reviews. I'm sorry to say that, according to Snarky and me, at least, there are, alas, only three Evans sisters, so we will not be seeing Daisy, Rose, or Violet (I'm particularly bummed about leaving out Violet, but oh, well). And, just to let you know, this chapter's brief departure from the main plot was a little vacation, nothing more; starting next chapter, you'll get rather more story than you probably bargained for.

Again, thanks for taking the time to read, and thank you for your reviews!  
AE


	20. Shatter

**Chapter 20: Shatter**

**MARCH 1987, FRESHMAN YEAR AT UNIVERSITY**

Edward John Dwyer—better known to his peers as Teddy—was the same age as both Andrea and Meli, and by Muggle standards, he was every bit as odd. While not a wizard himself, he appeared to have a semi-conscious awareness of the existence of a realm beyond the obvious, and it occurred to Meli more than once that, had she told him she was a witch, his only reaction would be to nod and make an off-handed comment about the weather. His interests were more science-fiction than fantasy-oriented, and it was he who introduced both witches to both _Star Trek_ and its new incarnation, _Star Trek: The Next Generation._ He was also more tolerant than others of Andrea's glam-rock obsession, which made him all right in her eyes.

Most of Teddy's acquaintances didn't consider him terribly socially adept, but that was largely owing to his propensity for thinking on two levels at once—an accomplishment which many of his peers would never master, and certainly not at that age. Given that Meli and Andrea functioned on his alternate level as a matter of course, they all got along swimmingly. Of the three, Teddy was perhaps the least athletic, preferring to exercise his mind in the wholesome environment of a deep book, but what he might lack in musculature, he more than made up in chivalry.

Both Andrea and Meli were accustomed to coming and going at all hours, paying little attention to the time of night, even though the university was located in a less-than-ideal neighborhood. So it was that Meli went out by herself fairly late one night near the middle of her second semester in America, to all appearances without a care in the world. She was returning to the dormitory just after midnight when Teddy, who had stayed at the library until it closed, saw her from half a block away while he was crossing the street.

He wasn't the only one to notice her, however, and before he had finished crossing, Meli was standing stiffly with a knife to her back and the other interested party speaking to her in threatening tones. While Teddy didn't hear distinct words, it required little for him to conclude that the other gentleman's intentions were less than kind. Thinking quickly (never a challenge for him), he started jogging toward Meli.

"Hey, honey!" he called, hoping that he sounded appropriately like a concerned boyfriend. "Are you all right?"

He was within conversational earshot by that time, so Meli didn't have to raise her voice at all. "Teddy, do me a favor," she said, her tone unbelievably calm under the circumstances.

"What's that?" he asked, fully expecting her to request a call to 911 or something similar.

Rather than answering immediately, however, Meli suddenly whipped her hands into motion, and within the space of a heartbeat, it seemed, she had soundly punched her would-be assailant and flipped him over her hip for a bone-crunching landing on the sidewalk. A well-placed kick knocked him out, and when she had made that finishing touch, she looked up at Teddy (who was staring at her in understandable shock) with a slightly exasperated look on her face.

"Don't call me 'honey'," she advised sardonically.

Teddy looked from her to her handiwork, then back again, at a total loss for words. After a long silence, he cleared his throat. "Jackie Chan, then?" he suggested lamely. "Or do you prefer Bruce Lee?"

Meli smirked. "Meli will do," she assured him, then walked with him until their paths necessarily diverged.

After that day, Teddy never saw the need to question Meli Ebony's ability to take care of herself…and neither, for that matter, did Meli.

**PRESENT: LATE NOVEMBER**

While, strictly speaking, there was no such thing as a routine extraction, Meli had developed an expected progression in her mind that more or less always played out when she went in ahead of the Death Eaters to disappear someone. She either knocked at the door or rang the bell, and within five minutes' time she had announced both herself and her purpose in coming, and she and her charge or charges were on their way out.

There were exceptions to every script, of course, and something usually happened that Meli hadn't anticipated, but the deviations were generally minor and caused minimal problems. The most bizarre exception, and the greatest delay by far, had come in the form of Aldarion Everett, and it wasn't much of a stretch to assume that that particular situation would not be repeated anytime soon.

She had known, intellectually anyway, that it was only a matter of time before she had to pull someone out half a step ahead of the Death Eaters, but she had hoped to have some warning of the fact before she went in, at least the first time it happened. Unfortunately, Death Eaters didn't publish their plans for the Order to see, and it seemed that Snape and Zarekael were being left out of the loop more and more, so on this particular occasion, Meli found her familiar script rapidly disintegrating before the curtain even rose on Act I.

She was habitually paranoid, so it was her practice to set up warning and security wards on her way into any dwelling from which she planned an extraction. Her first proximity alarm of three went off as she was knocking at the door, and just like that, her time-frame shrank from ten minutes to five—and even the figure of five minutes was a hedged one, since she'd never seen her security wards actually tested by a raiding party.

Fortunately, Robert and Kristine Coleman were practical individuals who were not inclined to stand around debating the necessity of a rapid departure. _Un_fortunately, however, the reason Robert was so valuable was that he had in his possession certain critical documents, which he kept safely locked away at home—and which had to be recovered before he and his wife abandoned the house to the Death Eaters. Kristine, at Meli's direction, ran to the window furthest away from where the proximity alarm had sounded and waited while Robert and Meli collected the papers. They were saved from worrying about the invaders apparating in, thanks to Meli's precautions, which included setting up anti-apparation wards around the house before she ever announced herself. That meant, of course, that the escapees couldn't get away by disapparating, which in turn led to a stronger reliance on portkeys and physical running than Meli would have liked, but the gamble had never worked out of her favor.

Until, possibly, now.

The Death Eaters came more quickly than she had hedged, overrunning her delay wards and entering the house while she and Robert were making a mad dash from his study to the guest room where Kristine waited. Adrenaline flew through Meli's veins, and the sound of sudden pursuing footsteps did nothing to dissipate it in the least. She and Robert pounded into the guest room, and Meli pulled from her pocket a travel packet of tissues, which she tossed to Kristine with the terse explanation "Portkey!" Kristine caught it left-handed, then reached out for her husband and Meli.

The footsteps chose that second to catch up to them, though, and Meli turned away from her charges to face the Death Eater as he came in. Seeing from the corner of her eye that Robert also had a hand on the portkey, she shouted "Sugar almond cookie!" and had the satisfaction of knowing that they were safely away.

Before she could activate her portkey ring, though, the Death Eater reached her, and she found herself suddenly in a physical struggle to apprehend his wand before he could bring it to bear. Her own wand, sheathed up her sleeve, was as good as a mile away, so she didn't even bother to try for it.

A well-aimed blow caught the side of his mask and sent it flying away, exposing a squarish face creased by a cold smile that made it quite clear to Meli that her opponent was enjoying himself immensely. She, for her part, bared her teeth and planted a knee in his thigh, drawing a yelp from him as she split his quads.

They were locked, each with the right hand grasping the other's left wrist, but in that crucial second of pain, the Death Eater loosened his hold, and Meli wrenched her left hand free to land a blow squarely on his throat.

It collapsed beneath her fist more easily than it ought to have done, and that, coupled with a strange-sounding expulsion of air—not sudden, but steady, and lasting far too long for it to be voluntary—told her that something was terribly wrong. Meli pulled backward, encountering no resistance from the Death Eater, and stared at her adversary in horrified shock.

Gone were the enjoyment and self-satisfaction, replaced instead by the bug-eyed countenance of a dying fish. He clawed desperately at his throat, and every muscle in his neck had come painfully to prominence, giving it the appearance of either a mass of ropes or a reddening tree trunk. He was fighting for his life, struggling vainly for air even as it hissed constantly out of his lungs and away from him.

_I collapsed his trachea,_ she realized in benumbed horror. There was nothing to be done for him, not without a mediwitch who specialized in such things, but her first thought, though he was her enemy, was to flail about in her mind for _something_ she could do to save him.

They stared at each other for a long, dreadful moment—he dying, she unable to tear her eyes away—before she returned to the awful reality that she had to escape, or she would meet a fate worse than his.

Meli swallowed, feeling something pricking at her eyes, then spoke the word to activate her ring and take her away from there.

ooo

The Colemans were expectedly shaken after their recent adventure, so they did not question their rescuer's unusual pallor, nor did they particularly notice that she kept staring at her left hand with a stricken look in her eyes. They sat, completely oblivious, in the Bat Cave receiving parlor, sipping at tea while Alfred readied a guest room, and then they took Meli's hollow advice and retired to try and rest.

Alfred himself, being neither shaken nor a stranger, noticed what the guests had not.

"Can I interest you in some anise tea, Rasa?" he asked politely, popping up in the middle of her path as she paced the parlor after the Colemans had gone.

She gave him a curious look. "Anise tea?" she echoed. "I don't recall ever saying I'm fond of anise."

The house elf smiled. "You haven't," he affirmed. "However, I have observed that you prefer the stronger-flavored teas to the sweet ones."

Meli smiled in spite of herself. "And Snape house elves, in addition to being discreet, are also highly observant," she rejoined, then abruptly sobered. "Perhaps when I return, Alfred," she told him. "The fact is, I have to report to Dumbledore before I do anything else. I've only been trying to forget that fact for a moment or so."

Alfred's smile turned a touch calculating. "Then perhaps I should instead have offered a bottle of Sambuca," he said dryly. "The flavor is not much different, but it would certainly contribute more in the way of forgetfulness."

Meli felt her own smile break. "I think I'd rather not get drunk just now," she told him quietly. "If I start on that path in my present mood, I don't think I should ever crawl out of the bottle." She shook her head, then stepped toward the fireplace. "No. I have to go, and I have to go now. Please see to our guests in my absence."

The house elf bowed. "Of course," he assured her. "But if there _is_ anything I can do for you," he added, "please, don't hesitate to ask."

She offered him a grateful glance, then drew a handful of floo powder from its jar. "Thank you, Alfred," she said, her eyes pricking once more.

ooo

The fire spat her out in Dumbledore's office, but the few seconds' transit time had been more than enough for most of the rest of her control to collapse. By the time the headmaster of Hogwarts saw her, the pricking in her eyes had drawn tears, which had filled her eyes nearly to the brim and were threatening to fall free; her complexion had gone from pale to ashen, and her jaw would have trembled slightly if she hadn't clenched it nearly to the point of breaking.

Fortunately, Dumbledore was alone, for she didn't think she could handle crying in front of an assembled audience on top of everything else—and her crying was not at all in doubt; it was simply a question of when she would break.

"Meli?"

Whether it was the concern in his voice or his use of her proper name, Dumbledore speaking was all the further trigger she needed. Meli didn't burst into tears, precisely, but her breath came only in violent, wracking sobs, and her eyes poured forth streams down her cheeks that flowed rapidly, soaking her face, her neck, and the bodice of her robe.

She didn't understand what followed, but when she had at last cried herself dry and the sobs subsided into a nasty fit of hiccups, she found herself sitting across from Dumbledore in a wing-backed chair near the fireplace. To her knowledge, anyway, he hadn't interrupted her or so much as attempted to talk, wisely choosing instead to let her weep in peace, but he was also waiting expectantly for her to explain herself.

_How _can_ I explain myself?_ she wondered miserably. _I've just killed a man—a living, breathing man—someone's son, brother, husband, perhaps, and for what? He was my enemy, but I could have escaped without _murdering_ him!_

It might have been easier had she actually seen him dead, but having left before then, her memory would always be of him dying—perpetually dying and never finding relief in death. There might have been another way, there must have been…but she would never actually know what might have come of it. In a split-second, without meaning to or even thinking much about it, she had taken the easiest way, and that was the way that she now had to live with.

_You've killed before, you know,_ an irritating voice whispered at the back of her mind.

_That was different!_ she retorted. _That was—_

_Your friend?_

She gritted her teeth. _Shut up._

_Sharpie?_

_Shut **up**!_

_Oh, come now,_ the voice went on mercilessly. _Who cares about a filthy Death Eater you've never met and will never hear of again? Time was when Dirk Pierce was one of your best friends—or had you forgotten?_

**_Shut the fuck up!_**

She didn't realize until she opened them that she had screwed her eyes tightly shut. Her head ached with the pressure applied to both her eyes and her jaw, and Dumbledore still sat calmly across from her, waiting in spite of his worry for her to speak first.

He seemed, however, to realize that she either could not or would not speak, so after a seeming eternity, he cleared his throat. "I hesitate to ask," he said softly, "but how are the Colemans?"

"Never better," Meli replied bitterly. "At least in physical terms. They're a tad shaken."

He paused, then took a deep breath. "Do you feel up to giving a report, or would you rather talk now and report later?"

She let out a short, abrupt bark of laughter. "I'm only going to talk once," she told him raggedly, "so if you want it logged, you'll want me to report now."

Dumbledore looked measuringly at her, but after a moment he nodded, then stood and crossed to his desk. Meli forced herself to stand up and follow, and by the time she stood before him, he had her log and Dicto-Quill set up and ready.

_Just stick to the facts,_ she admonished herself silently, but even that offered no relief, for the other voice returned.

_The fact is, simply put, that you've added another notch to your rifle, Phamelia Marvolo. You vowed never to kill, never to cross that line between you and your grandfather—_

_Voldemort!_ she snapped.

_Your _grandfather, the voice continued. _But now you've done it twice, and you still haven't even admitted to the first one._

_Shut up._

She cleared her throat and, in a shaking voice, proceeded to describe in detail the events surrounding the Colemans' rescue. Her narrative flowed steadily, if not precisely smoothly, up until the point she had activated the rescue portkey, and there she stopped abruptly.

Dumbledore waited a moment for her to continue, but when she showed no sign of doing so, he looked up and attempted to meet her eye. "Did you have to fight the Death Eater?" he asked quietly.

Meli hesitated, then nodded. "Yes," she said. "He—I couldn't get to my wand. We fought, and both my hands were caught…I got one free and…" She swallowed hard. "I hit him in the throat, sir."

She had thought that the last of her tears were spent, but she now found that that was an incorrect assumption. Streams flowed anew from her eyes, and her only comfort was that she was crying silently and that she could therefore breathe without sobbing. "I didn't mean to, Headmaster!" she whispered. "I only wanted to push him away, hurt him enough that he wouldn't come at me again, but I collapsed his windpipe." She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them quickly as the image of him dying danced in her memory. "I left before he died," she finished, "but there was nothing anyone could do to save him."

She was vaguely aware of Dumbledore speaking to the Dicto-Quill, but she had no comprehension of either how long he spoke or what he said. When he had done, he closed the logbook with a rather final-sounding thud and came around his desk to face her.

Meli stared at the floor; she couldn't bear to meet the headmaster's eyes—or anyone else's, for that matter—in light of what she had done.

"Is there anything I can get for you?"

She looked up in surprise. "What do you mean?"

Dumbledore shrugged and offered a compassionate smile. "Well, I generally like a piece of Turkish Delight when I'm feeling low," he replied. "But I know you don't much care for candy."

Meli felt a broken smile cross her face briefly. "Alfred offered me a bottle of Sambuca," she told him. "While the alcohol's not in my best interest, I suppose I could do with some black licorice all the same." She shook her head. "I killed him, Headmaster. I _murdered_ him."

"There was no malice aforethought, Meli," he said quietly. "You hadn't any time for thought—you simply reacted."

"This time, perhaps," she allowed, "but not before."

Dumbledore gave her a puzzled look. "Before?" he echoed.

She swallowed again and hung her head. She hadn't told anyone about meeting Dirk Pierce on Diagon Alley after identifying Crim, but her words on that day were as fresh in her mind now as if she had just spoken them a moment before—and they had been ringing in her ears when she had drawn her wand on him in June.

"I…threatened him, Headmaster," she confessed softly, her words barely audible. "The day I was called to London to identify—" She broke off and clenched her jaw to keep it from trembling. "I didn't come directly back to Hogwarts. I lunched at the Leaky Cauldron with Andrea, then went to Diagon Alley to buy…a Christmas present."

It was sobering, bizarre even, to associate Dumbledore's obnoxious toe-socks with that day. She hadn't intended to buy him a gift at all until that errand provided a temporary reprieve from human company, but his near-insane joy at the sight of them had overshadowed the events surrounding their purchase.

She took a deep breath and went on. "Pierce was there. He found me, tried to convince me to tell him where Collum was…I—I taunted him and got him angry so he would let me go, but I told him that if he hurt one of my friends, I'd do to him everything he did to them." She looked up fleetingly, then returned her gaze to the stone floor. "So you see, Headmaster, the hex I used on him was deliberate and premeditated. I wasn't thinking in the moment that _Tu__ Quoque_ shouldn't be able to replicate a deadly curse; I was only thinking to turn back on him what he'd done to Collum."

Now when she looked up it was to catch and hold Dumbledore's eye. "I planned exactly what I would do to him six months before I carried it out, sir. I murdered my friend, with malice aforethought."

_If you can't separate Pierce from Sharpie, _the horrible inward voice whispered, _how can you manage to separate anyone else?_

And with that thought, the rules on which she had built her perception of the world began slowly to crumble. She had, at one time, viewed Dirk Pierce as two people, just as she doggedly insisted on separating Snape and Zarekael and even Voldemort. The only person she had never been able to split was herself…and it was there that the dual constructions began to break down. She, Meli, herself, as one person, had murdered Dirk Pierce and the other Death Eater, and at no time would she ever cease to be the person who had done that. And now it had spread to include Dirk Pierce himself—she had managed to keep herself from hating that dark other, but now the dark other had disappeared, replaced by a tragically turned and twisted man who had been the boy she called her friend.

There had been nothing she could do to prevent that twisting of Sharpie, for the simple reason that she had missed any signals of its taking place, and she was aware that once he had made his choice, there had been little, if anything, she could do to save him from it. He had crossed a line and become her enemy, and from that point on it had only been a matter of time until they met and were forced to face one another.

But he would never have the chance to rethink his decision; he had died there, and Meli had brought it about—because she had divided him and seen not Sharpie, but the mythical other whose name was simply Pierce.

"None of it's real anymore," she said aloud, her voice sounding strangled to her own ears. "Everything I relied upon…it was a myth."

Dumbledore could have no idea what she was talking about, she realized, as she saw his eyes turn wary, and she shook her head. "People, I mean," she explained. "There's only one person, even if he has two sides. You can't divide them—it's Sharpie I killed, Headmaster. It was my friend. And it was my grandfather, not just Voldemort, who cursed me…and Severus and Zarekael—" She broke off, unable to spell out everything that her two closest friends had done, all of which she had set aside in the willful belief that others had carried it out.

"It's fallen to pieces," she concluded, then fell silent.

Dumbledore's countenance was one of grieved compassion as he took her gently by the arm and led her back to her chair. She sat without protest and didn't turn to see where he went when he moved out of her field of vision for a moment. He returned shortly, though, and held out his hand to offer her the last thing she would ever have expected.

Meli stared stupidly at the elongated candy dish, then up at the headmaster.

"I believe you requested licorice once upon a time," he said, some of the twinkle returning to his eyes. "Please, take as much as you need; you seem to be the only person, apart from Severus, who cares for it."

She let out a short burst of laughter, then sniffled and took a piece from the dish. "Thank you."

Dumbledore placed the candy dish on the small table beside her chair, then took his seat in a chair opposite hers. "My dear Meli," he sighed, shaking his head. "I'm very sorry for the pain you're going through. I had no idea—" He shook his head again, and she was given to understand that there were a number of things about which he'd had no idea up until then. "I can see that you have a great deal of thinking to do, and I have no wish to hinder that, but I'm unsure how best to act." He looked very seriously at her. "Would your thinking be better helped by continuing to work or by a leave of absence?"

Meli furrowed her brow and tried to remember how to think clearly. How was she to know what was wisest in this situation? She'd never been through anything remotely like it before. There was only one thought that emerged with any kind of clarity, and after several minutes of attempting to come up with anything else, she was forced to make a decision on the basis of it alone.

"Up until now, I've been trying to bury my thoughts away in my work," she said at last. "So perhaps it's best…to step aside for a time."

_You're Rasa!_ her intellect screamed. _You can't just "step aside"—there are lives depending on you!_

_And before I was Rasa, there were lives in the same balance,_ she retorted firmly. _Dumbledore made provision before; I'm sure he can manage to do it again until I'm ready._

She realized then, for the first time in at least two years, how tired she actually was. _I _need_ a rest,_ she thought.

Dumbledore, meanwhile, was nodding slowly. "Very well," he replied. "I shall make a notation in your log and notify everyone concerned."

"I won't turn away anyone who comes to the Bat Cave," Meli told him. "I'll be happy to see to them, of course. It's the extractions and other missions that I'd like a reprieve from."

The headmaster smiled sadly. "I'll make arrangements," he promised.

ooo

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Hm…  
Well, Omaha Werewolf, you have _somewhat_ caught me, but not quite. I will admit that the previous chapter was primarily designed as a breath of fresh air before taking a very long plunge downward. I will also admit that there didn't seem to be a way to spread out the carol-singing escapades, so they were all lumped together here. Howsomever, it wasn't an attempt to show off, and I did have a couple of other purposes in mind. Firstly, it develops a bit more some of the earlier rapport between Snape and the Skulkers, and secondly, it reintroduces the Skulkers as they were, which leads into what's coming next—namely, a treatment on the Skulkers as they are, or rather, as they have been most recently. I suppose that's one leetle problem with posting in cereal form; you finish the Rice Crispies and don't have a box of Corn Pops to pick up right away—  
(_slightly abashed look as Anca ducks out of the way of several thrown objects_)  
Okay, bad pun, but you get the idea. As always, thank you for your review!  
AE


	21. Contented Wi' Little

**Chapter 21: Contented Wi' Little**

Meli returned briefly to the Bat Cave and saw to the Colemans. It was the work of two days to establish them elsewhere and to ensure their protection, but the time passed steadily and she at last found herself at liberty to do her thinking. It was then that she came to the full realization that Snape Manor was not the ideal setting for it.

So it was, then, that she left the care of the Bat Cave in Alfred's capable hands and, with Dumbledore's permission, temporarily shifted her place of residence to the dungeons of Hogwarts.

Hogwarts was a change of setting and, therefore, a place conducive to the re-ordering of one's thoughts, but she discovered that there was one very irksome thing associated with being there: Everyone at Hogwarts who knew her for Rasa was bound and determined to pretend that absolutely nothing was amiss. Dumbledore, Snape, and Zarekael, at least, seemed more inclined to give her space to think, but the other Order-affiliated faculty actually went out of their way to make it clear that they were completely ignorant of the very thing that she knew they could not be ignorant of, for the simple fact that they were _so_ painstakingly precise in professing their ignorance. Whether it was Flitwick going out of his way to give her a jaunty nod of greeting, or Madame Pince going out of _her_ way to say how lovely it was that Rasa could drop by in between her many and various activities, Meli soon felt quite smothered by the shows of simultaneous support and denial that there was any reason for her to need said support.

It did not take long at all for this to take a toll on her, with the result that she had largely sequestered herself by the end of the first day there, emerging only for meals and then only because she felt that forcing herself to keep a routine and to be around people some of the time might keep her from going crazy from lack of activity.

It was this determination to be semi-social which, in fact, led indirectly to her first step toward re-balancing herself.

Meli was not at first suspicious when Zarekael invited her to tea. After all, she had met regularly for tea with him and Snape during the previous school year, and while it was more sporadic now, they still managed it from time to time. She was comforted by the timing of the invitation—what better to raise her spirits, after all, than an afternoon of tea with the closest friends left to her—but she never thought that there might be any design in it on Zarekael's part until she arrived at his rooms and learned that Snape would not be coming.

She then made up for lost time by discerning immediately what the apprentice's purpose might be…but she found that he was either hesitant or unsure of how best to introduce the subject of her suspension.

There followed, then, several minutes of Zarekael pouring out the tea and calmly engaging in inane small talk until Meli, who was, always, the more dynamically emotional of the two, cut him off with an impatient slapping of her hand on the tabletop. Zarekael paused, but his only other reaction was to blink.

"Will you stop!" Meli demanded, her voice louder than she'd meant it to be. "Just **_stop_**!"

The apprentice blinked again, but again he said nothing.

His silence irked her more than the small talk had done, and though _she,_ at least, felt her order to be self-explanatory, she expounded. "Stop acting as if nothing's happened! Everyone's going out of their ways to behave normally, and it's driving me absolutely mad! Something happened, damn it, and I'd like it if someone besides me _knew_ it!"

Zarekael furrowed his brow. "Would it help if I acted upset?" he asked, in honest innocence.

Meli rolled her eyes and tilted her head backward in exasperation. "_No_, it won't help!" she retorted, looking back to him. "Because you wouldn't _be_ upset! Don't act upset if you're not upset. I don't _want_ you to act upset, I want you to _be_ upset!" She paused, noticing that he was fighting to hide amusement, and she leveled a glare without much conviction at him and stubbornly added, "_I'm_ upset!"

Empathy buried the traces of humor in Zarekael's countenance, and he was silent for a long moment. Meli, having shot her bolt for the time being, picked up a cranberry scone and took a vicious bite out of it while he thought.

At last, the apprentice shook his head. "I wish I could offer you some reassurance that would completely comfort you," he sighed. "But the truth of it is that bloodshed can't be forgotten. It remains with you for the rest of your life."

Meli regarded him thoughtfully, nettled though she remained. He had told her nearly a year previously that he had all but murdered his own family—he had, at the very least, given information leading to their deaths. She knew now that he was older than he seemed, by at least five years…but he could still be very young; he certainly came off as young most of the time. If he truly was the age he seemed to be, his admonition didn't carry as much weight as it would had it come from Snape.

"And how long have you had to live with it?" she asked at last. "A long time? How old are you, Ruthvencairn?"

He looked her directly in the eye, the better to emphasize both the weight and the sincerity of what he was about to say. "I am seventy-six years old," he replied matter-of-factly.

There was a thick-sounding thud, accompanied by the faint rattling of china, and it was nearly a minute before Meli realized she had dropped her scone. She also had the unwelcome epiphany that her mouth was hanging open as she stared at him in undisguised shock, and she mustered the dignity to close it and to narrow her eyes to a more normal width.

She had known that Zarekael was at least twenty-five, but she had assumed that he was no older than her—certainly no older than Snape. In a peculiar twist, however, the son was now revealed to be old enough to be, quite literally, his father's father.

Meli swallowed and shook her head. "I had always thought of you as a little brother," she mused. "And now it turns out that you could be my grandfather."

Amusement tugged at the corners of Zarekael's mouth. "Among my own people," he told her, "I actually would be considered younger than you. Our life expectancy is about three hundred fifty, so, proportionally speaking, I'm about twenty or twenty-one."

She slowly shook her head again, feeling herself slide out-of-phase with reality as she knew it.

"And to answer your other question," Zarekael said quietly, "I have carried my first guilt for more than half my lifetime."

It had been a pattern, then. Meli ran a quick calculation in her head and felt rather ill. Assuming that he had first betrayed—or killed, for that matter; now that he hadn't necessarily been a child, it was suddenly possible—a family member at the age of thirty-five, for instance, he had gone twenty-two years between the first betrayal and the last. He'd said that he betrayed his father to his death, and she knew that his father had died when Zarekael had come to Hogwarts nine and a half years before.

Something about that bothered her, but she couldn't set her finger on it and didn't even try. The whole thing was grounds for botheration, really; her little brother was now revealed for an old man with a bloodier past than she had previously thought.

And it was Zarekael who had done these things, she admitted for the first time. She didn't like it, and she still didn't want to believe it…but she was beginning to. If she couldn't split herself, and she couldn't split Sharpie, she didn't see, logically speaking, how she could split Zarekael Ruthvencairn from the Death Eater.

He had killed the Goldens in a horrifying and calculated display of morbid creativity, and he had assassinated a government official with cold precision…but he couldn't always have been like that. Indeed, it was hard to reconcile the murderer with the man sitting across the table from her, and that in itself told her that there was more at Zarekael's core than the killer whose activities made headlines.

_How did he start out?_ she wondered. _He was so shaken to find that he'd killed twenty Death Eaters during his rage…Was his first kill like mine? Did circumstances run away and leave someone dead that time, too?_

Zarekael seemed almost to read her thoughts, for he said quietly, "It was a situation not unlike yours. We were at war—I didn't particularly _want_ to kill him, but it truly was him or me." His eyes darkened, and he shook his head slightly. "But I will forever remember how that man looked when he died."

Meli nodded absently. That was, indeed, how it had been for her. If only the Death Eater hadn't engaged her, she could have activated the ring—

She felt a wave of cold wash over her in the wake of a sudden, awful epiphany. "Oh, God," she breathed.

Zarekael looked keenly at her. "What is it?"

"That Death Eater didn't have to die," she whispered. "I could have used my ring to get away at any time—they're designed not to carry Death Eaters; he wouldn't have come with me."

"You were grappling with him—"

"That's not the point," Meli interrupted, shaking her head emphatically. "I could have gotten away before it became life-and-death."

"Neshdiana," Zarekael said firmly, drawing her eyes upward to meet his. "How long have you had the ring? Three months? This is the only type of portkey like that; it's not at all surprising that you wouldn't have remembered. When in hand-to-hand combat, your first thought is to get your opponent off of you."

"I _should_ have thought of it," Meli insisted doggedly.

The apprentice shook his head in mild reproof. "You were supposed to think, in the space of a half-dozen heartbeats, of what it's taken you four days to realize?" he countered. He paused a moment, then added quietly, "If it's any comfort, though…at least you'll never make that mistake again."

_Once was one time too many_, Meli thought harshly. "It's a small comfort to the Death Eater I killed," she said aloud. "I don't even know his name!"

It was, perhaps, on the face of it, a silly thing to dwell on, but as Zarekael could no doubt have stated, names were important things; they humanized a person, turning him into more than another face in a crowd. The Death Eater she had killed belonged to someone, but to her, he would always be a random face, gasping for air as it flew away from him.

"Unfortunately, in war, that's not always an option," Zarekael told her softly. "I don't know the name of the first person I killed, either."

"And you've survived," Meli murmured.

"Yes," he replied simply.

ooo

Her talk with Zarekael proved to be addictive, and Meli found herself longing to talk with other people, not about anything in particular, but to hear their stories. Zarekael had survived, but there were plenty of other survivors in her circle of acquaintance, most notably the people she had already helped to disappear. She wanted suddenly to listen to them, to hear anything they might say that could help her, comfort her, or at least assure her that it was possible for life to continue after it had been turned upside down by circumstances beyond control.

She had been suspended from active duty, but that was a very different thing from ceasing in her activities altogether. She wouldn't be rescuing anyone anytime soon, but she now had plenty of time to check in on the people she'd already disappeared. She thought long and hard about it before making the actual decision to do it, but she at last concluded that if she went on her visits with the intention of listening and synthesizing what others were saying, rather than escaping from her own thoughts, it couldn't hurt, even if it didn't help, her thinking process.

So it was that she had a pleasant, if extremely odd, visit with Aldarion Everett, and then endured an afternoon with the Llewellyns. Eventually she worked her way down the list of people until she reached the last name she'd written down—the last person she wanted to see at the moment. She had promised to check in with him, though, so she set her jaw and apparated to her last destination.

Molly Weasley was delighted to see her and knew, even before Meli introduced herself, exactly who she was. Dudley was at school and wouldn't be home for another hour, and while Meli wanted nothing more than to have it over and done with so that she could leave, she forced herself to be calm and to make her routine inquiries of Molly while she waited.

As low a state as she was in, the foster mother's answers only made her feel worse. Dudley was having the expected adjustment problems, and he had thrown himself into his schoolwork to compensate. Even after entering a strange school halfway through the term, he had brought home top marks almost from the beginning. While she was happy with his academic accomplishment, Molly worried over Dudley himself; he never spoke of his parents, and to her knowledge, anyway, he hadn't made any friends. The boy was doing well on the surface…but he was not happy.

"I don't know _your_ story," Molly concluded, "or where you've come from, but I wish you'd have a talk with him. The rest of us have done our best, but somehow I think you could do better."

Meli looked at her in ill-disguised mystification. She was a protection agent, not a counselor, and beyond that, she was a damaged person who had just been made aware of the extent of her brokenness. She couldn't cheer _herself_ up—what the _hell_ was she supposed to do for Dudley Dursley?

He was another person about whom she had been wrong. She couldn't say so aloud, of course, but it was the simple, shameful fact that she had once made it her mission in life to humiliate Dudley at every opportunity. If Molly had known who it was that was asking for help, it was a sure bet that, far from making such a request, she'd have set the family ghoul on her visitor.

Meli saw readily enough that this was an opportunity for penance, but she didn't feel up to the task, and she certainly didn't feel worthy of it.

But in the meantime, seeing Molly's worried countenance and anxious eyes, what other answer could she give?

"I'll talk with him," she said quietly, "but I make no promises."

Molly nodded and parted with a grateful smile. "I understand," she assured her.

The two of them sat in the Burrow kitchen, sipping tea and chatting for a further half-hour, at the end of which time Dudley arrived home.

One look at the boy's face told Meli that, somehow, impossibly, Molly's instinct had been spot-on. He wore the same mask she had donned at the age of twelve, and his eyes held the same hollow look of living death that she still saw in her own.

He had lost a significant amount of weight in only a month's time, with the result that his skin had not quite caught up and hung slightly, like an ill-fitted garment. Gone also was the swagger Meli had always associated with him, replaced by a cowering posture and a meekness in his movements that made it quite clear that he had no wish to be noticed, or even seen.

Molly, of course, had no intention of cooperating with that wish. "Dudley, dear," she said, as soon as he came in, "this is Anne Eliot. You'll remember her from Hogwarts?"

Dejected Dudley might be, but he was still sharp. "Yes, of course," he answered, in a voice every bit as hollow as his eyes. He mustered a smile. "It's nice to see you again."

Meli responded with a smile as broken as his was, and Molly, after seeing Dudley settled with a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits, left them to talk.

"How are you, Dudley?" Meli asked after a moment. She had no illusions about his answering truthfully, but how else was she to begin?

He shrugged listlessly. "Fine," he replied. "School's all right, and Mrs. Weasley's a great cook."

Meli nodded slowly and braced herself. "But not as good as your mum?" she suggested carefully.

Dudley narrowed his eyes in pained confusion. "Why would you ask?" he inquired.

_Damn._ He was at least as far buried as she had been, and it had taken the concerted efforts of both Fell twins and Professor Snape to snap _her _out of it. How could she, by herself, even hope to make a dent in him?

Well, that was something they had in common. At least she could start there.

"I ask," she told him, "because that was one of the first things that bothered me."

He stared at her. "Mrs. Weasley's cooking?" he said, more bewildered than ever.

Meli smiled in spite of herself. "No," she countered. "_My_ foster mother's cooking. She did quite well…but she wasn't my mum."

It actually was true, oddly enough. She hadn't lived with the Staffords very long at all, but some part of her had taken it to heart that these were her parents, and when she thought of home cooking, it was still Bianca Stafford's lamb stew that came first to mind (followed closely, admittedly, by Mrs. Cameron's lemon curd). Alexandra Fell made an excellent hotch-potch, but it had never tasted quite right, for the simple reason that she was not Meli's mother.

Dudley's eyes showed life at last, in the form of open surprise. "You had a foster mother?"

She nodded. _As long as I keep it general, it should be safe,_ she thought. _There were hundreds of orphans made back then._ "My parents were murdered by Death Eaters during the First Rise," she replied aloud. "They were Muggles, and their daughter was a witch—that was their crime." _One of them, anyway,_ she amended silently. "A wizarding family took me in as if I'd always belonged to them," she continued. "But it wasn't the same—it never could be."

The boy was silent for a long moment, and then he said the last thing Meli would ever have expected: "That's why you were so upset about the rings."

Her jaw dropped open in unconcealed surprise, and she didn't even try to save face by pretending it was a yawn.

Dudley smiled ruefully. "It just made sense," he explained. "If the rings were designed to take us to you, it stands to reason you'd be interested in meeting the people who'd use them." He sobered. "And it makes even more sense that you'd care so much about our having them." He shook his head. "You gave up because it was obviously pointless, but I saw you crying when Dad threw you and the other fellow out—_and _I heard the row with the police afterward."

Meli came within an inch of grinning outright. "I _am_ sorry about calling your dad a marmoset," she said.

He let out an amused snort. "It was funny," he replied simply.

Silence reigned again for a time, and again it was Dudley who broke it.

"How did you survive?" he asked quietly. "How can anyone live through having their life ripped to shreds and being thrown into the world like this? I mean, the Weasleys are great," he added hastily, "but nothing they do can put the pieces together again."

Meli regarded him thoughtfully. How ironic that he was asking her the very same question she'd been asking everyone else. Surprisingly, though, she found that she had an answer. "I stopped thinking of it as survival," she told him after a moment's consideration. "I figured out that if I was always looking backward at what _had_ been, there was no honest chance of my looking forward to what _could_ be. I resolved to look at this as a completely new life, in which I chose what I kept and threw away the rest." She shook her head slowly. "You can't change the past, Dudley—not the bad things, and not the good. If you hold onto the good and work at doing even better, you'll do more than simply survive.

"It was a song, of all things that drove the point home." She raised her eyebrows. "Are you at all familiar with Robert Burns?"

Dudley shrugged. "Read a bit of him in school," he replied. "He's the one that wrote about love being a red rose, right?"

Meli smiled. "That was him," she affirmed. "I had a heavier dose of him than I would ordinarily have done; my foster mother was a Scot." Two perfectly true statements that hadn't a thing to do with one another, but that technicality was entirely beside the point. "He wrote a song that I discovered about the time my parents died, and I've kept it with me ever since."

"What song?" Dudley asked.

"'Contented Wi' Little'," Meli answered, then, without awaiting any reply, sang the first verse for him:

_Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair,  
Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care,  
I gie them a skelp, as they're creepin' alang,  
Wi' a cog o' gude swats, and an auld Scottish sang._

Then, perceiving that he had probably only caught one word out of three, she translated with a wry smile:

_Contented with little, and joyful with more,  
Whene'er I'm acquainted with sorrow and care,  
I give them a swat, as they're creeping along,  
With a bowl of good ale, and an old Scottish song._

"A silly little song carried you through it?" Dudley said, almost scornfully.

"I never once said that," Meli countered. "What carried me through was an attitude that happens to be reflected in that silly little song. I had to make the choice to have that attitude."

"Easier said than done," Dudley muttered.

"Much more easily said than done," Meli agreed seriously. "And not done all at once in any case." She stopped suddenly as a peculiar thought suddenly clicked into place and inspired a sobering epiphany: She was, in a very real sense, right back where she had started sixteen years before. If ever she was reacquainted with sorrow and care, it was now—and if ever her world was turned on its head, it was most certainly now.

And now, as before, she had to choose what she would hold onto and what she would leave behind, and whether she would look backward or forward.

_And this can't—won't—happen all at once, either,_ she thought.

Whatever external evidence she gave of her epiphany, Dudley clearly picked up on some indication of it, for she saw that he was watching her very closely, as if trying to discern her precise thoughts.

"It doesn't ever get easier," he said softly. "Does it."

Meli shook her head. "In a given situation," she replied, "it becomes easier over time simply because it becomes a habit. The problem, really, is that life will never become simpler." She offered him a mirthless smile. "In fact, it's ironic that I'm having this conversation with you just now, because I'm in a situation of having to choose my attitude." Her smile turned a bit truer. "The best reassurance I can give you is that you won't be in a constant state of crisis unless you're a particularly unusual individual."

"That's fair, I suppose," he allowed.

A part of Meli wanted to continue the conversation, but another part of her considered that the time had come to leave Dudley to his thoughts. What those thoughts might be and what direction they would take, she couldn't entirely say, but she had, at least, done as she'd promised: She had tried.

Even Molly could ask no better of her.


	22. Piercing Cries

**Chapter 22: Piercing Cries**

Dumbledore had not placed on her the requirement of reporting on her progress, trusting instead that she would speak with him when she was ready. He was, perhaps, a bit surprised that she came to see him only a week and a half after the beginning of her suspension, but the purpose of her visit was, in fact, to make a request that had nothing to do with her returning to duty.

"Do you know anything about Sharpie's family?" she asked shortly after her arrival. "Where they might be, for instance?"

She had spent the better part of a day thinking it out before speaking with Dumbledore, but there was a task she had finally set for herself that she was determined to carry out if it was at all possible. She only hoped that Sharpie had not been the sort of Death Eater who would kill off his family in order to hide his Muggle origins from Voldemort.

Dumbledore regarded her thoughtfully before answering. "I know where they were a year and a half ago," he replied slowly. "They posted a letter to me with a return address."

Meli frowned. "A year and a half ago?"

He nodded. "Mrs. Pierce was hoping I might have some information about Dirk," he said. "He went missing the night Voldemort returned; to all appearances, he vanished without a trace. I was unable to help her at the time, and…" He looked a touch uncomfortable. "Even when I discovered where he had gone, I was hesitant to tell his parents about it."

"They never knew he was a Death Eater, then?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "To my knowledge," he told her, "they don't even know that he's dead."

Meli swallowed then took a deep breath. "I'd like to be the one to tell them, sir," she said firmly.

Now he fixed her with a penetrating gaze, weighing her resolve and her reasoning and probably half a dozen other factors, as well. "How much will you tell them?" he asked after a moment.

"They deserve to know he's died," she replied. "I think they also deserve to know that he was a Death Eater, though I'm not sure _I_ could bring myself to tell them, either. But they need some manner of closure, Headmaster, and I'd like to give them that much, at least."

ooo

Sharpie had never talked much about his family, beyond general references to the fact that he had one, and since family ties had been a sore subject for all of the Skulkers, none of the others had pressed him in the matter. It hadn't required much detective work on Meli, Crim, or Collum's part to discover that Sharpie was Muggle-born, though he had hidden it well from the start, and, since none of them had a problem with Muggles, they had never troubled themselves to learn more there, either. It was an accepted practice among the Skulkers to share what they would with whom they would and to keep the rest to themselves, and that, Meli felt, was where they had actually failed Sharpie in the end.

She had never seen his family, either in life or in pictures, and she had only a vague idea that he had grown up somewhere near the coast. She was not surprised, therefore, when Dumbledore gave her an address in Brighton, but she also was uncomfortably aware that, whether she had the right house or not, the person answering the door would be a stranger.

Meli took her time in getting ready for her excursion, choosing Muggle clothing that was just-so, a _glamourie_ that was just-so, and a cover story that was more than just-so. She had never met the Pierces, and she had no desire to start things off on the wrong foot, particularly given the type of news she was bringing them.

The young woman who appeared in the Muggle section of Brighton was slim and delicate of feature, with a gentle grace about her that seemed unaccountably to indicate quiet grief. She looked around briefly to orient herself then walked steadily toward the destination written out carefully on a scrap of paper she carried in her left hand.

She never stopped nor hesitated until she came to the door of the house, but then it required fully five minutes for her to scrounge up the courage to knock.

The door was answered by a woman nearly twice her age, who had jaw-length white-blonde hair, startling blue eyes, and a careworn countenance on which time and worries had taken a heavy toll. She regarded her visitor wearily, too tired even to give a word of greeting.

"Mrs. Pierce?" the young woman said uncertainly.

The lady of the house seemed surprised, but she nodded. "Yes," she replied, in a voice as tired as the rest of her.

"My name is Ada Clare," the visitor told her. "I've come from Professor Albus Dumbledore."

Relief and hope sprang up in Mrs. Pierce's face, giving off a light that was almost youthening. "You have news about Dirk?" she asked, then went on without awaiting a reply. "Come in!"

Meli followed the unfortunate woman down a hallway and into the sitting room, where a tallish man sat near the window, reading his newspaper. He looked up at their entry, and she saw looking back at her Sharpie's pale gray eyes. Lance Pierce's hair and mustache were both gray, but she judged by their shade that he had once been blond. He stood up to shake Meli's hand when his wife introduced her then invited her to sit while Mrs. Pierce dashed off to find someone else.

"I hope you're not alarmed by Susan's excitement, Miss Clare," he said quietly, parting with a grave smile. "We've all been worried about Dirk, but it seems almost as if she takes all of our weight upon herself. She is one of those rare souls who will never cease to cry at the evening news because she feels the pain of loss as if those thousands of people abroad were her own family."

Meli smiled soberly. "I daresay it will never be a poor world with such hearts as that about," she replied.

Susan Pierce returned then, with a girl following her. This girl Meli thought might be about seventeen or eighteen, and there was no doubt of her being Sharpie's sister. She had pale hair pulled into a waist-length braid, pale gray eyes, and the same pointed chin; when she smiled reflexively at the sight of a guest, she even betrayed a hint of the same dimple in her left cheek.

"This is our daughter Épée," Mrs. Pierce said. "She'll be going to university next autumn."

Meli offered a truer smile. "What do you hope to study?" she asked politely.

"History," Épée replied. "I'd like eventually to teach at the university level."

They engaged in a bit more small talk, but no more than seemed to be required for the occasion, and at the end of it, Meli found herself the object of three desperately curious pairs of eyes. She had discovered through the light conversation that Sharpie was very much loved and admired by his family, and while she had no idea if it actually made her task harder, it certainly made it no easier.

She cleared her throat and vowed to take it like a Gryffindor—well, she amended hastily, a _cautious_ Gryffindor. "As you no doubt have guessed," she began, "I've come from Hogwarts with some news of Sh—Dirk."

"You've just nearly called him something else," Épée pointed out.

_She's a sharp one,_ Meli thought ruefully. _More and more like him every minute._ "We called him Sharpie in school," she said. "He always had a Sharpie marker somewhere in easy reach—it was a bit of a trademark."

"You knew him, then?" Mrs. Pierce surmised.

"A little," Meli allowed. "The truth is that…there is no one left who knew him well." She cleared her throat to ward off an involuntary tightening. "I honestly don't know how much you know about the goings-on in the wizarding world right now," she continued. "When Dirk started at Hogwarts, there was a Dark Lord on the rise. He was nearly killed and went into exile when we were third years, but there was always the chance of his coming back." She met each one's eyes. "He returned around the time Dirk went missing."

The elder Pierces both paled, but Épée, oddly, made no reaction at all.

_She knows something,_ Meli realized. _She's his baby sister—he might very well have taken her into his confidence._

"You must have found him, or some clue about him, if you're here, though," the girl said in a low voice.

Meli nodded and found herself casting about for the proper words. "We found him after a battle," she told them at last. "He and two of his closest friends from school were all found together, actually. They had been killed in a sortie—I'm very sorry."

Now Épée did pale as her mother burst into tears; Sharpie's father went very still, but the look in his eyes expressed every ounce of his shocked disbelief.

"How did he die?" Épée asked quietly. "There was not…much pain?"

Meli closed her eyes briefly, but she could not answer without looking directly at Sharpie's sister. "He died quickly," she replied. "I honestly cannot say how he felt—the curse used on him can be painful"—_Agonizing,_ she amended silently—"but we know that he fought to his last breath. I know that sometimes pain can be set aside through sheer force of will…and I know that Dirk was very strong of purpose."

Mr. Pierce set his jaw and nodded in affirmation of her statement, while his wife mustered a broken smile through her tears. Épée furrowed her brow and bit her lip, the first signs of acceptance and grief surfacing in her eyes. "Well said," she murmured. "My brother was nothing if not that." She now looked searchingly at Meli, as if hoping to discern from the guest's countenance just how much was truly known about Sharpie; the guest in question kept her expression carefully neutral.

Meli ended her visit shortly afterward, and while Mr. Pierce remained behind to comfort his wife, Épée walked her to the door.

"May I speak with you for a moment?" she asked once they were out of the others' earshot.

Meli regarded her coolly. "Certainly."

Épée matched her look for look. "You never said a word about Dirk being a Death Eater," she stated. "And yet, if you found him in the aftermath of a battle, you can't help but have known."

_How I hate being right,_ Meli thought miserably. "There didn't seem to be a delicate way of saying it," she replied softly, flicking her eyes in the direction of the sitting room. "When I came here, I was unaware that you knew."

Épée offered a wan half-smile. "He told me where he was going the day before he went off," she admitted. "Both of us knew that Mum and Dad wouldn't understand, but he wanted me to know—he wanted _someone _to know." She leaned forward slightly, as if taking Meli into her confidence. "He did it for us," she all but whispered.

The surviving Skulker stared at her. "He did it for you," she repeated hollowly. "How, pray tell, does that follow?"

The girl glanced back in the direction of her parents, then beckoned for Meli to follow and led the way into another room nearby, which proved to be a small study.

"Look," she said, still keeping her voice low. "I don't know even half of everything about the wizarding world—I'll tell you that for free. What I do know, though, is that Dirk's blood was thicker than his skull, and you may think what you will about that, keeping in mind that I'm his sister."

Meli smiled in spite of herself. "Not knowing the facts of the matter," she answered, "I'm happy to take your word for it."

Épée nodded, permitting herself a tiny smirk eerily reminiscent of Sharpie's. "He told me about this Lord Moldy, or whatever his name is," she went on, "and how he was all in favor of a world entirely of, by, and for wizards, with Muggles being either slaves or exterminated—or worse." She shook her head. "Dirk wasn't even sure _he'd_ be safe in a world run by this fellow if it was known where he'd come from, so he set out to do what he could to prevent the worst."

"How?" Meli pressed. _He _can't_ have been a spy!_ she screamed inwardly. _He would never have murdered Crim, and if he didn't report to Dumbledore, who the hell _would_ he have trusted? He had as low an opinion of the Ministry as I ever had!_

The girl sighed. "He erased all ties to us," she replied. "Made himself out to be a pureblood—which wasn't too far of a stretch, as far as I see, since I think he'd always kept it hidden that he came from Muggles. He told me that if this fellow lost, we'd be safe anyway, but if he won, Dirk meant to be in a position to protect us. He went in hoping to climb through the ranks, which would give him the right connections to hide us away and keep us safe."

_This is impossible!_ The structure of words shattered as her mind spun in a thousand directions at once, every possible argument flashing across her mind's eye in a chaotic frenzy of sound and color, devoid of order but drenched in meaning. For every piece and fragment and shard that careened crazily about, there was an equally wild emotion that was as impossible to synthesize as the pictures and noise—a noise that built rapidly up from an ethereal sighing to a tumultuous rushing in her ears. She fixed her gaze on Épée Pierce, using the form of the girl before her as a stationary point on which to focus as she rode out the storm, until at last the sound and fury coalesced into a single, anguished realization:

_I murdered an innocent man._

And yet, she saw immediately after, he hadn't been innocent. He had done far more than simply take the Dark Mark.

"I—I don't understand," she said hoarsely. "He killed Crimson Fell—he threatened Meli Ebony. Why—!"

Épée shook her head sorrowfully. "He said…we were more important," she replied. "I saw him right after he…found…Crimson. He—it took him an hour or more to tell me what had happened. He couldn't breathe without sobbing. But he said it was the only way—she was one of the Dark Lord's greatest enemies, and killing her would…would help him rise in the ranks." She met Meli's eye and shook her head again. "I don't know anything about what he said to Meli," she continued, "but I'm sure he had the same goal in mind."

Meli made no attempt to hide her anguish. Let the girl think what she would; she could hardly suspect the true identity of her visitor. "He never told anyone, though," she whispered. "Épée, if he had told the Skulkers about it, they would willingly have helped him! All four of them might still be alive, if he had only taken them into his confidence!"

"Are all of them dead, then?" Épée asked, her voice rising suddenly in pitch.

Meli nodded. "Everything I told you is true," she answered quietly. "He was found with Collum and Meli—they killed one another, Épée. The others died thinking he had thrown in his lot with the enemy."

The girl's distress was evident in her features. "I asked him why he didn't tell them," she told Meli. "He said if they didn't react precisely right, he would be exposed as a sham and be killed as a spy!"

"Oh, God," Meli breathed, Dumbledore's voice ringing in her ears.

_How much is it worth to you_, he had demanded of Snape and Zarekael, _this genuine reaction that you deemed so necessary?_

The two spies had forfeited the headmaster's trust, at least for a time; Sharpie had forfeited his life and the lives of three of his friends. Snape and Zarekael had achieved their objective, however, while Sharpie had defeated his own purpose and salvaged nothing worthwhile in the meantime. Most critically, Snape and Zarekael had correctly judged the thoughts and reactions of all parties involved, whereas Sharpie had struck out on all counts.

He had underestimated the thickness of Collum's own blood and the others' loyalty to Crim—and to him. The twins' parents were Aurors; Crim herself was an Unspeakable, and Collum and Meli were hardly lacking in connections. Had he but come to them, they would gladly have pooled their resources to protect both him and his family, but instead, unaccountably, he had chosen to rely on no one but himself…and everyone had lost.

"Why Crimson, though?" Meli whispered after a moment. "Why kill her? She was at least as hard to find as Collum would have been."

Épée bit her lip. "She was the one most likely to figure him out," she answered simply. "Followed by Meli, he said, but for some reason Meli was untouchable." She looked down. "He never meant to kill any of the others, and it nearly killed _him_ to harm Crimson, but he'd got it into his head that he _had_ to do it."

"And if You-Know-Who had lost?" Meli inquired. "Dirk had to know that he'd be tried and imprisoned."

Épée nodded. "He was willing to risk it for us," she stated. She looked up and met Meli's eye again. "And he knew he could die before the war ended in any case," she added. "So he left a letter with me, just in case someone came to tell us he'd been killed. You can take it to Dumbledore?"

Meli swallowed. "I can take it to Dumbledore."

ooo

How she held her tears at bay until she stood again in the headmaster's office, she never could afterward fathom. She managed it, though, and even when the tears finally came, they were silent and cold, without sobbing or flushed cheeks or any other violent accompaniment. When Dumbledore asked how her visit had gone, she wordlessly handed him a parchment envelope.

He watched her a moment in silence before opening it; the contents proved to be one full page of parchment and several smaller scraps that had been folded in with the larger one. Meli made no reaction when he unfolded and glanced at the page, but she was thoroughly surprised when he replaced the parchments in the envelope and returned it to her with the explanation, "I believe this is yours."

"He meant _me_ to read it?" she asked quietly.

"He addressed it to you," the headmaster replied. "Whether or not you read it is, of course, your choice, but I believe it was Dirk's intention that you do so."

Meli shook her head slowly. "He had good intentions," she murmured. "But he was misguided in how he went about it." She sighed. "'He did what he had to do, sir, and it's something in this world, even to do that.'"

Dumbledore smiled gently. "I detect a note of Dickens in your musing," he observed. "_Hard Times_?"

"_Bleak House_," Meli answered. "Mr. Coavins sent men to debtors' prison, but he did it to support his children—to protect them from the trials of destitution." She shook her head. "And then he died, and the children had to look after themselves anyway." She was silent a moment, then took a deep breath and looked Dumbledore in the eye. "I know this isn't pertinent to my activities as Rasa, Headmaster, but I'd like to record it in my log, please. It'll already be publicly known that Sharpie was a Death Eater; now that I know the rest of it, I want that to be publicly known, as well."

She was under no illusions as to the previously known facts being recorded; when Snape had learnt from her that Sharpie had gone over to Voldemort, he would surely have logged it, and he and Zarekael had most certainly reported their carving of the Death Eater after Crimson's death. Now, however, she was the only person in the wizarding world who knew the full story, and if she didn't record it, Sharpie would only ever be known as a selfish, power-grubbing traitor.

Susan Pierce deserved better than that for her son, and Sharpie deserved better for himself.

Dumbledore gauged her for a moment, then nodded and set up the logbook and Dicto-Quill without another word.

She recorded, in painstaking detail, her entire visit with the Pierce family, from the various reactions her news elicited to the quiet conversation she'd had with Épée afterward to the envelope she had received and shown to Dumbledore. She left nothing out, and by the end of her narrative, it was impossible to say if Rasa or the headmaster was the more morose one.

"Can you account for his killing Collum Fell?" Dumbledore asked when she had done. "If his sister spoke truly, Dirk had no wish to do so, and yet he did."

Meli nodded slowly. "I've been working at that puzzle myself," she admitted. "All I can think is that he killed in self-defense." She smiled ruefully. "Collum wasn't going to capture or wound him, Headmaster—that much was painfully clear. Had he got off a hex, it would likely have been a deadly curse, and in a case like that…Well, as I can testify, when it's you or the other fellow, you don't stop to think that he was once a friend."

"But wouldn't the _Kedavra_ have made more sense?" Dumbledore persisted.

She shook her head. "Sharpie saw me coming, sir," she replied. "He knew I'd survive because everyone was under orders not to kill me, so he remained in character and killed painfully." She swallowed the hard lump in her throat and continued, "I can only think that he hoped he could somehow convince me to let him survive, but I suppose we'll never know now."

"Would you have let him live?" the headmaster asked quietly.

Meli closed her eyes and sighed. "When he first took the Mark, yes," she answered. "Even after Crim, if he had just come to us and _told_ us, I think I would have done." She opened her eyes again and stared at the desk. "After Collum…I truly don't know. I was in such a state that I don't think I would have listened. As I am now, yes; as I was then, though, I honestly cannot say."

ooo

She returned to her rooms shortly thereafter and stared blindly at the wall for what she later thought might have been an hour or more. It was a gradual awakening, but she did eventually emerge from that numb state, and then the question of what she was to do now reared its ugly head.

The envelope had remained clutched in her left hand the entire time, but it could not stay there forever. Sooner or later she would have to make the decision to open it, to set it aside, or to destroy it, and while she had no desire to make that choice at all, the fact remained that if she did nothing now, she would never do anything. Doing nothing, while appealing on the one hand, seemed too much like the coward's way out for a Gryffindor like herself to allow, so it was imperative, if only to prevent a great deal of annoyance, for her to do _some_thing.

Which brought her nicely full-circle to the question of what, exactly, she would do.

Meli had a good, long, hard stare at the wall for another moment or so then set her teeth. "The problem with Gryffindors," she sighed at last, "is that we're just too bloody much like cats."

Having uttered those rather opaque and yet somehow vicious words, she stalked over to the couch, threw herself down on it, and hurriedly tore open the envelope before she could second-guess herself and call the whole thing off.

The full-size page and each of the scraps were labeled with dates in their upper right-hand corners, making it easy for her to discern both the proper sequence of writing and the events surrounding what had been written. The letter on the page came first and had been written the day after Voldemort's return, while Meli was still in the hospital and Crim and Collum were making the final arrangements to disappear themselves. Meli took a deep breath and turned her eyes to the words that followed the date.

_Dear Meli,  
I don't know when you'll receive this or what you'll think of me when you do. I daresay you'll read it more as a concession than out of true interest, and I can hardly blame you for that. What may come in the days ahead, I can't say for certain, but I know that there are plans I have in mind to carry out which will make us enemies. I'm not so foolish as to hope you'll forgive me—I don't deserve that honor. I only hope that you will understand, or at least take my word for it, that what I do is for a cause other than my own advancement._

_I suspected even before starting at Hogwarts that Muggles and Muggle-borns might be looked down upon. That is why I took such trouble to hide my origins and why I am much obliged to you and to Crimson and Collum for remaining silent. Once I became better acquainted with the happenings in the wizarding world, I was all the more glad for my family remaining secret because I knew that they would be in danger as long as You-Know-Who was about. I believed you, Meli, when you warned us that he wasn't dead but only exiled, and it was then that my present plans took early form._

_I mean to join the Death Eaters, and I mean to get as close to You-Know-Who as I can. As the only wizard in my family, I am the only true protection they have if he should win in the end. I thought briefly of going to Snape for help, but I am not nearly so sure of him as you and Crim are; even Collum doesn't trust him, and he is more like you than I ever will be. I also considered Dumbledore, but he would never understand. He would think I was using my family as an excuse, and the last thing I need now is a lecture on proper priorities. I know what I'm about, Meli—I want you to understand that. I don't want power, at least not the kind You-Know-Who has to offer, and after what he did to you, I don't trust him to give even what he promises. He's in this for himself, and as you know far better than I do, he never cared for his family as much as for power; I care more for my family than for anything else._

_I can't make up my mind to post this to you anytime soon. I'll leave it with my sister for now, and if I ever change my mind, it'll be a simple enough matter to retrieve it and post it after all._

_I know what you think of Death Eaters, and I know what you think of murderers. I am soon to become both, and I understand completely that you will hate me for it. I have knowingly entered into this deal with the devil, in the hopes that my family will be safe, even though I forfeit my soul and the regard of my friends. _

_I am not a martyr._

_I am nothing more or less than a Hufflepuff in Slytherin's robes. As much as we have despised the badger, Meli, it does have two admirable traits: loyalty and determination. I hope I may truly say that I have those virtues, at least, even if one loyalty is subordinate to another._

_I do not ask you to think well of me, but I hope that one day you will realize that I have never ceased to think well of you._

_Farewell,  
Sharpie_

Meli held the page between her thumb and forefinger for a near-eternity after reading the words scribed upon it, and she once more stared blindly ahead of her. Her thoughts turned back to her confrontation with Sharpie on Diagon Alley the day after Crim's death, and she now saw the entire conversation in a wholly different light.

His goal had been precisely what he had told her that day—to rise quickly through the ranks—but not for the reasons she had assumed. When she had seen in his eyes that he somehow wanted to be understood, what he had wanted her to understand—but what he couldn't bring himself to say—was that, even if they weren't precisely on the same side, he at least was not on Voldemort's side. In signing his initials, he hadn't meant to make the murder personal; he had simply overplayed his hand in making it clear that he and no one else had done the deed and that, therefore, he and no one else deserved a reward for it.

And she had, as she intended, most certainly sparked an emotional reaction when she brought up his Muggle family, but it wasn't the prideful anger she had assumed. She saw now that, far from being angry, Sharpie had been panicking, for she was unknowingly threatening to undo everything that he had sacrificed so much to accomplish.

According to Épée, he had been an emotional wreck after killing Crim, which told Meli that he'd had to force himself to do it, not because he hadn't the stomach to commit murder, but rather because his loyalty to his friends was still powerful. He had written vaguely in his letter about one loyalty being subordinate to another, and she had no doubt that, in the end, Sharpie had convinced himself that he had to sacrifice his friends in order to save his family.

She felt a sharp pang of regret at the thought. If he had only trusted his friends enough to ask their help—! Crimson was an Unspeakable, Collum a mediwizard, Meli a person with connections; if necessary, they could have faked the death of one or even both of the twins in a way that would have guaranteed Sharpie's success. Any number of other ideas came to mind, countless possible ways that his friends could and would have helped him if he had only _asked_…

_It's my fault he didn't, though,_ she realized soberly. What was it he had said? "I know what you think of Death Eaters, and I know what you think of murderers. I am soon to become both, and I understand completely that you will hate me for it."

_He never saw that I liked and trusted Severus,_ she thought. _Somehow he missed that, and I never made the connection for him. All he understood was my antipathy for Death Eaters in general; how could he _not_ have thought it would transfer to him as soon as he took the Dark Mark?_

And yet he had held onto a shred of a hope that someday she might bring herself to understand and, if not approve, at least think better of him.

She understood, but it was a broken-hearted understanding tainted by deep regret and shattering self-reproach. Her friends were all she had in the world, and the Skulkers were the closest of all of them to her heart…and she had failed them, for in failing Sharpie, she had brought about the others' deaths, as well.

_I could never bring myself to hate him_, she recalled. _But now I must ask if I can, or ought to, bring myself to hate myself._

Sharpie, of course, would never have seen it this way; his letter made that plain. He laid the blame squarely at his own feet, not indicating that he felt her to be culpable in any way. If he had survived the war and talked the matter over with her, she suspected that he would reproach her for blaming herself or holding herself in any way responsible; he was very much like Crim in that respect.

But Sharpie wasn't around, and neither was Crim, and Meli was left very much by herself in the matter of determining her course.

_I don't know yet how I feel,_ she concluded at last. _Perhaps I ought to wait until after I've read everything._

She slowly leaned forward to place the page on the coffee table and sorted the parchment scraps by date.

The script on the first scrap had the painful neatness of a person forcing steadiness to his hand in order to mask the maelstrom in his soul. It had been written shortly after Meli's sudden departure from Surrey, and she strongly suspected that Sharpie had penned it within a day following his initiation.

_Do you remember me…  
Or will you forget me?  
I'm dying, praying, bleeding, and screaming.  
Am I too lost to be saved?  
Am I too lost?_

_Today I have taken the second to last step. Now they  
won't take me back; I can only go forward from here.  
If I can just remember that there's already no turning  
back, maybe it will make easier what I have to do  
next.  
God forgive me. No one else will._

Meli had no doubt about what it was that Sharpie had felt he had to do next. As well as Crimson Fell had hidden herself, he must have been looking for her for months, and once he was fully initiated as a Death Eater, he had no logical excuse not to begin his search. There was, of course, the emotional excuse, but having convinced himself that the Skulkers already hated him anyway, he had managed to overcome that objection—at least long enough to do what he felt was necessary.

The next scrap was dated the day before Meli had gone to London to identify Crim's body. In all likelihood, he had left it with Épée before the fateful meeting on Diagon Alley, and Meli felt oddly comforted by that fact. As distressed as Sharpie had already been, at least he hadn't had to face his sister after having had his most anguished fears painfully confirmed by Meli herself. He may or may not have chosen to tell his sister what had transpired…but at least he hadn't had the option at the time.

_I tried to kill the pain,  
But only brought more,  
So much more.  
I lay dying,  
And I'm pouring crimson regret and betrayal._

_It is over. If I ever could have turned back  
before, I no longer have a choice in the matter.  
Blood is thicker than water…but so are the  
ties between friends. I never thought until  
now—I never let myself think it—that the  
price of my family's safety might be too much  
for me to bear. I never thought my grief for  
Crim and my hate for myself after—God, after  
murdering her! I never thought this could bury  
my fears for my family!_

_All I want now is to die. What was I thinking when  
I took the Dark Mark? Harry Potter will win,  
and everything I've worried about won't matter. _

_Everything I've done, everything I've given up,  
all of my efforts—they're pointless. I have  
destroyed everything I valued, for if my parents  
ever learn what I've done—_

_There is nothing left for me now except to  
continue on this course and pray that something  
good comes of it eventually._

_I earnestly hope that Meli or Collum finds me.  
After what I've done, they'll be doing me a favor  
if they kill me._

Meli furrowed her brow and blinked a few times to clear her vision before going immediately to what was scrawled on the final scrap, which was dated a fortnight before his death.

**_I WANT TO DIE!  
_**_My wounds cry for the grave.**  
**My soul cries for deliverance.**  
**Will I be denied…**  
**My suicide?_

He had written nothing further after that truncated bit, and Meli suspected that he had said all that he felt he could say in those words. Knowing as she did the origin of the song from which he had drawn all three excerpts, she felt it safe to conclude that Sharpie's wish had not altered in the time between December and June, except to intensify, possibly to the point of becoming an obsession. He might, as she had previously thought, have been trying to redeem himself in Voldemort's eyes by making an attempt at capturing Harry Potter and by killing Collum as he had done, but she was no longer certain of that. Sharpie had to have known that Harry was heavily protected, and he could not have been so foolish as to think that a Skulker on faculty would have failed to take into account the secret passages leading into the dungeons. Only the fact that Meli had left that particular passage unwarded had permitted him to go as far as he had, and only the need for Aurors to be elsewhere had kept him from being hexed into oblivion on emerging from it. Meli had nominated Collum, in his form as Monty, to patrol that corridor, knowing that it would be vulnerable _if_ Sharpie had made its presence known to other Death Eaters or made use of it himself.

Sharpie, however, could have been counting on the passage being either booby-trapped or more heavily guarded, in which case his death was actually a bizarre case of "suicide-by-cop", as Andrea might have called it.

The Aurors would have fired to kill at that point, but Collum and Meli were more questionable. Suddenly she saw an entirely different reason for his having used a slower-acting curse on Collum: The Venarupturum was relatively quick and painless when compared with the other Sangriatus curses, but it permitted enough time for the victim to fire off one last hex…a deadly curse, for instance.

Granted, Collum's intention to kill Sharpie had appeared quite evident from the beginning of the confrontation, but it was possible that the Death Eater had thought he might back down. Unlikely, of course, but possible, in its way; while Collum had been the Skulker most given to harboring grudges, he had also been the one most ready to relent if his better feelings came to the fore.

_Maybe, maybe not,_ Meli sighed inwardly. She could work out the logic of it any number of ways, but this was one case in which she could never be sure. That Sharpie had been depressed was obvious; that he had been suicidal wasn't too much of a stretch. There was, however, no solid evidence that his last stand had been a successful bid for death, and she saw no real profit in pursuing the point. He had died, and that fact would not change, no matter what his motives or Meli's thoughts on his potential motives; what mattered in the end was what she chose to do in light of what she did know.

She smiled slightly. It was strange, really; she had expected to feel more confused and angrier at herself, at Sharpie, at the world, after reading what he'd left for her to find, but instead it seemed that something within her had come to a settled conclusion. She still blamed herself, at least in part, for his feeling that he couldn't confide in the Skulkers—that was an issue that could only be resolved over time—but she felt herself oddly freed from the burden of his death.

The irony of it was that she should have felt further culpable, not liberated, for it had been her failure that had ultimately led to Sharpie's demise. But Sharpie himself had never said a thing about that; he took full responsibility for his choices, and he would not have blamed her for killing him.

_Even,_ she realized suddenly, _if he hadn't been suicidal. He would have understood that I was doing it out of—_ She let out a laugh of morose amusement. _Out of loyalty and determination._

As she had told Andrea nearly a year ago, Dirk Pierce was nothing if not an all-or-nothing sort.

ooo

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** All three quotes from the parchment scraps recorded in this chapter are taken from "Tourniquet", written by Ben Moody, Amy Lee, D. Hodges, and R. Gray; and performed by Evanescence.

And Cinammon, welcome back! I'm glad the story continues to keep your attention, and I hope you enjoy the rest that's to come!  
AE


	23. Dark Strength

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **In the interest, as always, of giving credit where credit's due, the quote about tear gas in the following chapter is from the song "WooHoo", written by Peter Furler and Phil Joel, and performed by Newsboys.

PS And no, I promise this is not turning into a songfic; it just happens that I found more applicable quotes in my music collection than on my bookshelf…for two chapters in a row. However, I am happy to say that we'll be returning to the literary realm soon enough—promise.  
AE

**Chapter 23: Dark Strength**

**PRESENT: EARLY DECEMBER**

While Meli's logical mind was only too happy to inform her that she had spent a great deal of time brooding and not a lot of time solving anything, the illogical fact remained that something had been resolved amid her brooding and talking to people and reading what Sharpie had left for her. She couldn't explain it, even to herself, but somehow the words he had written and her thinking on them had put to rest the inner conflict she had experienced over killing him.

It was still true, and would never be otherwise, that she had killed him. It would also always be true that he had killed Crimson and Collum Fell and threatened her. She saw, however, that there were some other things true, as well, and in that understanding she found a peculiar peace.

Even though he had tragically miscalculated everyone and everything involved, Sharpie had joined the Death Eaters with a noble motive. He had gone disastrously awry at nearly every turn, but he had not been evil in the classical sense. He was, in the end, more to be pitied and mourned than hated and despised, and while Meli was fairly sure that she would ask herself for the rest of her life _why_ he hadn't gone to someone for help, she also felt the last dregs of resentment sinking slowly away.

Whatever he had done, she found the strength and the will to call him her friend again.

It did not mean that she had healed, nor that she had ceased to be conflicted over either killing him or killing the nameless Death Eater that she had somehow linked to him…but it did mean that, after a great deal of serious thought, she felt herself ready to return to duty.

ooo

Her activities had only been suspended for a fortnight, but she felt that years had passed as she knocked at Dumbledore's office door. He called for her to enter, and she took a deep breath, feeling oddly as if the air she inhaled was somehow clearer than what she'd been breathing for the past fourteen days. She did as bidden, closing the door behind her, and found the headmaster standing at his desk, beaming at her from beneath two madly twinkling eyes.

Meli darted a narrow look at him, then glanced down and saw that her log was already laid out and open, with a Dicto-Quill ready to-hand but not yet standing to attention.

"News travels fast," she said dryly. _How—!_

"Not at all," Dumbledore countered. "Are you familiar with the Hebrew tale of the lost son?"

She arched an eyebrow. "If you're referring to the younger son who demanded his inheritance before his father's death, then went off and squandered it," she replied, "then yes…but I thought it was recorded in Greek."

He shrugged, and his eyes twinkled a bit more brightly. "The language is of less importance than the tale itself at the moment," he said. "The point of that story is that when the son repented and came home, his father saw him from a distance and ran to meet him, which in turn suggests that the father had been _watching_ for him."

Meli offered him a wry smile. "So how long have you had my log book on your desk, then?"

"I never put it away after you returned from the Pierces'," he answered. "Though, of course, that may have been slightly optimistic, given that you still needed time to think."

She didn't even bother to suppress a laugh at the headmaster's almost childlike optimism; it felt nearly as good to laugh as it did to breathe clear air. "I think yours has to be one of the most irrepressible spirits I've ever encountered," she mused.

"Possibly so," he conceded. "But am I right in thinking that you have something official to record in your log?"

"If you think me fit for service, sir," Meli replied, "I'll be happy to return to duty, but that is, of course, your decision."

Dumbledore regarded her seriously. "I am not exaggerating when I say that, to my eyes, you appear more fit now than you did even a year ago," he told her.

Meli furrowed her brow for a moment…and then it dawned on her what he was probably referring to. In less than a week, it would be the one-year anniversary of Crimson Fell's death.

"A whole year?" she murmured. It didn't seem that nearly so much time could have passed, even with everything that had happened in the intervening months.

"You've carried the cloud over you for nearly a year," the headmaster confirmed gently. "And while it is not entirely gone, much of it seems to have dissipated."

Meli shook her head. "It hardly seems possible."

"I see no reason why you cannot resume your duties," Dumbledore said quietly after a moment. "Do you feel that you're ready?"

She nodded. "Absolutely," she replied.

With a broad smile, Dumbledore set up the Dicto-Quill, and they made an official record of it. Only after he had closed the log and replaced it on its shelf did he show any signs of sobering, but even then it was not to an alarming degree.

"If I may say so at the outset," he told her, "I think you could not have chosen a better time to come back."

Meli raised her eyebrows a hair. "Oh?"

He nodded, and she saw in his expression a strange look that was not entirely sly and not entirely cheerful, nor entirely triumphant, but some odd combination of all three. "Unless I am very much mistaken," he replied, "your particular skill set will be put to extremely important use within the next fortnight."

There was a flicker through his eyes that gave her grounds to ask a further question that otherwise she might not have entertained: "And what are the chances of you not being mistaken?"

The headmaster sobered slightly, but his confidence was unshaken. "Depending upon all of the people involved," he answered after a moment, "the chances are, as my counterpart at Prospero would say, fair to middlin'."

She stared at him in dark amusement, then shook her head and let out half of a laugh. "One thing I should have learnt long ago and never did," she sighed, "is that elderly wizards, be they true or fictitious, thrive on being cryptic."

Dumbledore shook his head. "Actually, I find that the fictitious wizards are rather boringly straightforward," he countered. "If it's Gandalf Greyhame you have in mind when you refer to fiction, Meli, I'm afraid I must disappoint you by informing you that that gentleman truly exists."

"Distant relative of yours?" she suggested sardonically.

"No," he replied matter-of-factly. "But his biographer was my second cousin once removed on his mother's side and my first cousin twice removed on his father's side."

She cleared her throat. "My fault for asking," she sighed. "If you don't mind, though, I think it's time I returned to Snape Manor; unless I'm much mistaken, there's a shot of Sambuca that needs seeing to."

"Welcome back, Meli," Dumbledore said cheerily as he walked her to the door. "I'll let you know when I learn more for certain about the upcoming mission."

He did notify her about a week later that her presence might or might not be required in the hospital wing a few days following…but he neglected to say anything further about the people or circumstances she would be dealing with.

ooo

Her final notification was brought to Snape Manor by owl, and it was cleverly disguised as a misdirected invitation. Had Meli not been in a rather dark mood, she might have been amused, but as it was, she perused it with a sense of foreboding.

_We request the honour of your presence, _it began, tongue firmly in cheek, and went rapidly downhill from there.

_Has anything pleasant ever started that way?_ Meli wondered, feeling inexplicably trepidant. _The last time I came across those particular words, they were followed by _The tear gas has blown away._ I half think that, far from reporting to the hospital wing tonight, I should be running away—_far_ away._

Against what she considered her better judgment, though, she made her way to Hogwarts that evening and proceeded, unescorted, to the hospital wing. Her foreboding, far from being dispelled, was coldly and harshly justified before she even arrived at her destination, when the sound of raised voices reached her ears as she stepped out of the public part of the hospital wing and approached the private room Dumbledore had indicated in his invitation.

_"Request the honour of your presence,"_ Meli thought, her jaw tightening suddenly and painfully. "_The tear gas has blown away"—maybe._

"…Forgive us for not being able to think of _everything,_" Snape's voice was saying nastily, "but we were dealing with more pressing matters."

"They're going to have those scars for the rest of their lives," the unmistakable voice of Amber Ebony snapped back. "What do you have to say about that?"

"At least they have their lives," Snape countered coldly as Meli entered the room. "Would you prefer it to be otherwise?"

The scene that opened before her was one that simultaneously shocked and mortified her as it sank in—far too rapidly to be properly processed all at once—what was going on. There was a nasty face-off between Snape, Zarekael, and her Aunt Amber, who stood in profile, with the Potions teachers turned slightly toward the back wall. Between Amber and her adversaries was a space just big enough for Meli to see two hospital beds, each with a person seated on it…and those people were her grandparents, Henry and Rose Ebony, who did, indeed, have wicked scars curved under their chins, as if their throats had been cut and afterward healed rapidly and not very carefully. Beyond the elderly couple could be seen Dumbledore and Poppy, both of whom appeared to be staying out of the fray. Beside each bed was a compact worktable; these had obviously been in recent use, but the equipment and other implements were now neatly packed up and awaiting departure.

All of this she observed in the space of half a heartbeat, and by the end of that, Amber was already retorting. "I would _prefer_ them not to be in this situation at all!" she growled.

"And what would you have had us do?" Zarekael asked, his voice calm but showing considerable strain.

"You could have given warning," Amber told him. "You've done it before—why not now? You've _obviously_ been planning this for awhile." With an impatient wave of her hand, she indicated the worktables.

"We _did_," Zarekael said. "We just didn't know specifics."

To judge by the look Amber gave him, she was more likely to believe an offer to buy the Brooklyn Bridge. Meli, however, was a little less sure. Something had happened since the storming of Azkaban, something that had kept Snape and Zarekael from knowing as much as they might have done. That, coupled with Dumbledore's evident uncertainty about time, place, and even people involved, indicated that the two spies might very well have been as much in the dark as she herself had been.

_Well, not quite that far,_ she amended silently. Whatever the mission, they had clearly known what the cleanup would involve.

Snape, meanwhile, had not taken kindly to Amber's displayed incredulity. "We knew it would happen," he stated, "but I didn't know who _or_ when until today." He paused, then leveled a defiant glare at Dumbledore. "And even if I _had_ known, I wouldn't have said anything because this mission _had_ to look successful." He redirected his glare to Amber. "This was a test of my loyalty—we _gave_ warning about Azkaban, and we've been under suspicion ever since. This was my final test of _many_, Minister Ebony, and it _had_ to succeed. My only comfort is that it wasn't the Dursleys; _some_ missions don't have loopholes allowing for survival."

Meli frowned, wondering what, exactly, he meant by _that_ comment.

"So you did it to save your own skin, then!" Amber snapped with a nasty kind of triumph.

"You would prefer, then, that one spy, perhaps two, lay dead and your parents unscathed," Zarekael replied, his tone sounding rather peculiar. He turned his head to look at the Unspeakable from a slightly different angle, and Meli bit down on a gasp. His eyes, normally an inhuman shade of blue, were now a swirling mass, like a rolling fog-bank of blue and green; he was going into a rage. "Would it please you," he continued, "if we killed ourselves here and now, to see if the scars would disappear?"

Amber missed what Meli had seen, as she proved with her next action. She slapped the apprentice sharply across the face, leaving a stinging handprint to mark it, then, before anyone could react, whirled and slapped Snape, too. "And that's for _thinking_ it!" she told the Potions master.

The scene descended further into surreality then, for scarcely had the words left Amber's mouth than Rose, who sat huddled on her bed watching the confrontation, started to giggle.

"That's my girl!" Henry crowed, smiling approvingly at his daughter.

"**_SHUT UP!_**"

That came from all three combatants, and was followed immediately by Amber turning on the spies and snapping, "Don't _you_ tell him to shut up!"

Snape glanced then to Zarekael and came back for a covert second look, and Meli had no trouble concluding that he, too, saw the changing of his son's eyes. The apprentice took a deep breath and closed his eyes briefly, but when he reopened them, the roiling fog was still there.

"Our deaths now won't smooth the scars away," he said, his voice surprisingly softened. "Severus' death then wouldn't have prevented the attack; the initial result would have been the same. At least this way there was a chance, however uncertain, of their survival—or would you prefer that my father had died for nothing?"

"But you didn't have to resort to such a brutal method!" Amber retorted.

Snape shook his head, acknowledging the pointlessness of it all. "Despise us and revile us if you will, Minister Ebony," he told her coldly, "but you and the others have no qualms about reaping the benefits from these methods you so condemn." He and Zarekael picked up their potions kits.

"Enjoy these gifts, Minister Ebony," the apprentice said by way of a parting shot. "They _weren't_ free."

Snape put a guiding hand on his son's elbow, clearly prepared to lead him out if necessary. "I believe we're no longer needed here," he said. "Good day to you, Minister Ebony." He bowed to each of the others in turn. "Sir…Madam…Headmaster…Poppy." He then smirked and bowed likewise to Meli. "Rasa." Zarekael bowed mockingly to Amber, and while he glanced at Meli, it was the most he did. He and his father then proceeded to the fireplace and flooed away.

In the spies' wake, Amber turned in surprise to face her disguised niece; Meli, her own thoughts in turmoil, gave her a noncommittal look in return.

"Ah, Rasa," Dumbledore said, crossing the room to meet her. "You received my note, I see."

"Oh, so you told _Rasa_, but you couldn't be bothered to tell _me_!" Amber nearly shrieked.

"He didn't tell me anything more than I daresay he told you, Minister Ebony," Meli said quellingly, feeling the sting of her aunt's words. "If even Professor Snape didn't know who or when until today, how could Dumbledore? All I received was a note telling me to come here tonight—neither names nor circumstances were given."

Amber turned fully on her now. "Well, _you_ at least got a note," she growled. "I didn't even get _that_. They're _my_ family, _not_ yours—_you're_ a complete stranger!"

Meli took it as a physical blow and was left swaying on her feet by the time her grandmother came to her defense.

"Amber, _stop_," Rose Ebony ordered. "That was completely uncalled-for—she had nothing to do with this!"

"You have no way of knowing that!" Amber snapped back. "I know all about Rasa! She's a rogue agent with a different identity every day. You think those two are two-faced?" She waved in the direction of the fireplace. "Rasa has multiple faces."

"Amber," Rose said warningly.

"Oh, no," Meli interjected silkily, sliding into a place of emotionless ill-will. "No, by all means, let's talk about Rasa." She took a step toward Amber, setting aside her fond memories of her aunt and calmly lashing out with all the grace of a wounded animal. "You know everything about me _except_ the name I've had to leave behind, so examine my record, Minister Ebony. What has been my purpose in the Order? What sort of missions have I gone on? What actions have been attributed to me? My _entire_ purpose and mission have been to help people like your family and to protect innocents from the Dark Lord and his ilk. Judge for yourself, and I daresay you will not find me wanting."

There was a brief, brittle silence, then Poppy interrupted briskly. "If you two ladies are going to argue, would you kindly do it elsewhere? _Someone_ needs to see to these patients if you won't."

"Thank you, Poppy," Dumbledore said smoothly. "As you say, there is business to attend to." He turned to Henry and Rose with an apologetic countenance. "I truly am sorry for what you've gone through tonight. I believe I speak for everyone when I say we wish it had been otherwise; however, what's done is done, and now we're left to deal with the consequences." He beckoned Meli forward while Amber glowered at him. "Obviously, since you are both presumed dead, you cannot return to your normal lives, which brings us to the reason for Rasa being here."

"What kind of a name is Rasa?" Henry asked derisively.

Amber snorted but held her tongue; Meli gave her a reptilian look before answering, "Rasa is a code name—the only name left to me—but that is of no importance. What _does_ matter at the moment is that you're both in need of new names and identities, a safe-house, and"—here she turned to look Dumbledore in the eye—"a means of escape in future. May I have two portkey rings for the Ebonys' use?"

"I'll speak with the suppliers," the headmaster promised, a peculiar look in his eye suggesting that he appreciated, as she did, the irony of the situation.

Meli now turned back to her grandparents. "I am the operative who makes the arrangements necessary for people to disappear," she went on. "When Poppy sees fit to release you, we'll move you to a safe location, where you'll be under my direct supervision while the more permanent arrangements are made. You have an advantage over the rest of my charges, though—since the Death Eaters think you're dead, they won't be looking for you."

_Take that, Minister Ebony,_ she thought darkly as her grandparents looked to their daughter for her input.

"There really isn't much choice, I suppose," Amber said ungraciously. She leveled a glare at Meli. "It's all right; you'll be fine with her."

Knowing full well that that was as much as she was likely to get, Meli nodded her acknowledgment of the backhanded vote of confidence.

"Very well, then," Dumbledore sighed. "Minister, we'll leave you to rest and talk with your family." He gave Meli what might have been a veiled look of apology, then led both her and Poppy from the room.

ooo

They maintained a necessary, if brutally brittle, silence the entire way to the headmaster's office, and no one dared to shatter it until the door had closed behind all of them and they were well and truly sealed off from the rest of the castle. Poppy glanced from Dumbledore to Meli, then stepped to the side and turned her gaze to one of the headmaster's particularly elaborate candy dishes, leaving the others to square off unhindered.

"What in _bloody_ _hell_ happened tonight?" Meli demanded, somehow managing a civil and more or less level tone of voice. "And I don't mean the official story, _sir._ I want every single detail known to you, and I want them _now._"

Dumbledore sighed, but there was more understanding than long-suffering in the sound and in his countenance. "I honestly had no idea until Severus returned who his targets would be," he told her wearily. "And then, of course, it was too late to warn anyone ahead of time."

He shook his head and leaned heavily on the edge of his desk. "We did know that this would be Severus' final test of loyalty," he continued. "He and Zarekael had been working on methods for falsifying deaths since before Voldemort's return, and they at last managed a breakthrough." He smiled soberly. "They created a potion that combines the Draught of Living Death with a slow-acting poison. The intended effect is, of course, to falsify death by a poisoned blade by causing the person to show symptoms and then apparently to die."

"So what went wrong?" Meli asked coldly. "Something must have done, judging by the argument I walked in on."

The headmaster cleared his throat. "I don't know what caused the precise effect," he answered. "From what was said in the hospital wing, I gather that the way the potion bound to the blade caused some interaction that prevented a complete healing of the wound.

Meli narrowed her eyes as a tiny suspicion took root. "Didn't they know from previous cases?" she inquired, a dangerous edge evident in her voice.

Dumbledore looked her squarely in the eye, but she saw that he had much rather look almost anywhere else. "There were no previous cases," he replied. "This was the first use."

Now her eyes went wide, and she thought she could actually _feel_ them blazing. "**_What_**."

"There was no time to test it before this," Dumbledore replied uneasily. "It was a calculated risk—"

"On two seventy year-old Muggles!" Meli nearly shrieked. "How much, exactly, _can_ you calculate ahead, Headmaster? They're in good enough health—I'll grant you that much—but at their age—!" She broke off, unable to articulate every single possibility for catastrophe that came readily to mind. It would be like experimenting on Dumbledore; perhaps he would do just fine, but there was always the chance as the body grew older and frailer that something could tip the delicate scales of health and result in truly tragic consequences. What in the world had any of them been thinking!

"The worst-case scenario in any case is that your grandparents would have died," Poppy interjected gently. "Here, at least, there was a chance of their survival."

It was a hateful thought, and Meli despised herself for grudgingly agreeing to it. As despicable as it felt, though—as coldly Machiavellian as it was—it was, unfortunately, the truth. Had there been no clever trick ready to hand, Snape would have had to kill them, just as Zarekael had had to kill the Goldens. By the same token, had Snape refused the mission and been executed as a traitor, Voldemort would simply have sent someone else, and the Ebonys would still have died. Had the experiment failed, they would have succumbed, either to the poison itself or to the life-sapping Draught of Living Death.

In the third case, however, there had been a chance for survival that neither of the others presented, and as Meli forced herself to see that, she was able slowly to calm down, if only a bit.

"How close did they come?" she asked quietly.

Dumbledore and Poppy traded glances. "They were touch-and-go," the mediwitch answered. "Severus and Zarekael knew in theory how to revive them, but as you can imagine, it was rather tricky and wanted some fine-tuning." She smiled grimly, with a strong hint of satisfied triumph. "Between the three of us, though, we made brilliant work of it, if I say so myself."

Meli at last permitted herself a tiny smile at the sight of Poppy's evident happiness with the outcome. "Aunt Amber seems to be of a different opinion," she observed coolly.

Poppy waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, her," she sighed. "She always was protective of her family—a good thing, mind you, and don't misunderstand me, but she's one of those rare souls who tended to take it too far."

Meli smirked. "If I were a blood-relation, I suppose I would make the observation at this juncture that at least I came by it honestly," she replied sardonically.

Poppy gave her a look of fond annoyance. "Don't think it never occurred to me," she rejoined darkly. "Many's the time when you _still_ remind me of Amber Ebony!"

Meli shook her head, then looked to Dumbledore. "Obviously you'll be wanting them disappeared," she sighed. "And preferably before Christmas?"

The headmaster nodded. "You can manage that?"

"Of course I can," she answered. "As long as Aunt Amber is good enough to stay out of my hair. I like a good challenge, but I'd prefer to leave that pleasant pastime out of the bargain altogether."

"Fair enough," Dumbledore told her, nodding once. "Do you think there might be any possibility of Amber spending Christmas with her parents once they're settled in?"

Meli smiled wickedly. "As long as she keeps out of my way in the meantime," she replied, "of course. If she gets underfoot, however, I'm afraid I'll have to make an official recommendation that she stay away. Can't be too careful in maintaining new identities, you know."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled briefly. "I'll be sure to pass that along," he promised.

ooo

**FURTHER AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Thanks once again to those of you who reviewed.

Cinammon- Buckle your seatbelt because there is a great deal yet to come, and Rasa's honeymoon with her job is definitely over. Hope you enjoy what's coming, and if not…feel free to let me know.

Omaha Werewolf- While I would _love_ to take credit for the little emotional roller coaster having to do with categorizing characters…I can't. Sharpie went over my head on this one and was kind enough to let me know with a sound whack over the head while I was serving on a jury—not the best timing in the world. However, I'm glad that I'm not the only one who can't go through this story without a little (or big) twist throwing me for a loop, and I'm glad I was able to convey it well. Thank you for your very high compliment!  
AE


	24. A Towmond o' Trouble

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** So I'm not dead yet, and hopefully Eric Idle isn't going to settle the question by clubbing me over the head once and for all. I apologize for taking so long to post, but three factors have contributed to it. Firstly, I was under deadline for another story and consequently had no time for laundry (except in emergency cases), much less fanfic. Secondly, this particular chapter had a few problems in it because I'd written it in two parts, so when I spliced it, it needed surgery to eliminate a lot of repetition. Thirdly, this was actually the end of what I had written in advance, so I needed time to write more in order to post again. _How_somever, I made my deadline, I did my laundry for real, I have just finished the Chapter 24 surgery, and Snarky and I have worked out, in detail, the entire rest of sixth year, so all I need to do is type it all out.

Thank you for your patience, and I hope you continue to enjoy this tale of woe.  
AE

**Chapter 24: A Towmond o' Trouble**

Snape and Zarekael were not at breakfast the following morning, and Meli had no trouble believing that they were probably either asleep or staring aimlessly at a wall—or drinking themselves into a stupor. She had no appetite to speak of and consequently made quick work of the meal and went wandering through the corridors afterward.

She had been awake the entire night, making what plans she could for her grandparents' safe removal from Hogwarts and reestablishment elsewhere. It would have been nice, she thought darkly, to hide them as far away as possible—China, for example, was probably very lovely that time of year, and if they preferred to relocate to a warmer climate, there was always Peru. Unfortunately, she had no connections outside of Britain save Andrea Underhill, and even Andrea really wasn't a connection anymore. She might be willing to hide the Ebonys for the sake of her "late" friend Meli…but Reglan was beginning to swell with British nationals. The town was small enough to hide the Camerons and the Fells, but to add another family to that might very well be pushing it.

They would, therefore, be hidden away relatively nearby, and if she kept to pattern, she would have to visit them every now and again to see how they were doing. It would be a difficult task in any case because she would have to play the part of a stranger to her own grandparents, but it would now be all the harder. Henry Ebony had never been one to keep his grudges to himself, and it stood to reason that he would either regard Rasa with suspicion or he would look on her as the perfect audience for voicing his opinions of Snape and Zarekael. That left her with an unpleasant choice: either take it in silence, or attempt to defend her friends.

The prospect of defending them, unfortunately, raised a hateful question in Meli's own mind: _How much had they truly known?_

No, that wasn't the question at all; particularly after the events of the summer, she understood, even if she didn't necessarily like it, that sometimes spies could not afford to tell everyone everything, but even so, she had no doubt of Snape's sincerity in this case. After all, he and Zarekael had admitted to their foreknowledge of the assassinations as soon as it was safe to do so; there was no reason for them to lie outright here and now, even if they were not comfortable telling the entire truth in the Ebonys' presence.

Say rather, then that the true question was _how much had it been safe to tell Dumbledore?_ Snape might very well have had some inkling, even if he hadn't had precise, hard information, of more specific timing or of the victims' possible identities, and Zarekael might not have been as entirely in the dark as he seemed to be. This was allowable, even understandable, but it introduced the question of plausible deniability.

In this case, they had not failed to inform her personally; under such circumstances, that was Dumbledore's job, and, truth be known, she was not important enough to keep intentionally out of the loop. This was her family, yes, but her only possible courses of action on learning that her grandparents might have been in danger were to become hysterical, to tip the spies' hand and warn the Ebonys, or to do nothing at all. The first two courses helped no one and would potentially have destroyed everything, and the only way to guarantee that she followed the third course instead was to have her do it by default by not telling her—which they had done both indirectly and well.

If they had thought it necessary to keep Dumbledore even slightly in the dark, however, she needed to know just how in the dark the headmaster might need to be in future. There had been no need for a genuine reaction in this case; the only other witnesses to the Ebonys' arrival were Poppy and Amber, who had learnt everything immediately anyway. Poppy, like Meli, was of no concern, for, as a member of the Order, she knew enough to trust Dumbledore's choices.

Amber, on the other hand, was the Minister of Mysteries, and while the Order had a tenuous alliance with the Department of Mysteries, its head was not likely to appreciate being kept uninformed of things that either affected the Department or impacted her personally. It had been necessary, of course, for her possible reactions had been the same as Meli's: destroy everything, or do nothing. Unfortunately, since she was emotionally involved in the situation, Meli had a good hunch that Amber would not have seen it that way and would most certainly not appreciate having it pointed out to her.

If Dumbledore was nothing more than an ally, withholding information—particularly_ this_ information—could be construed as either a lack of trust in the Department or an attempt to gain leverage over it—or its head. If, on the other hand, he was, as Meli and a few others quietly suspected, a free-agent Unspeakable, withholding information from Amber Ebony constituted holding out on his superior, which, particularly in a case in which Amber was personally involved, was tantamount to mutiny.

In either case, it would not go well for either Dumbledore or the alliance between the Department and the Order if, at any time during the war, it was learned that the headmaster had deliberately not shared pertinent information with the Minister of Mysteries. And if Meli, who was fairly out of the political arena at the moment, knew that, it stood to reason that Snape and Zarekael were all the more aware of it.

It was possible, then, that she might at some point in her line of work come across information that it might be politic to keep away from the Department, and if the established rule for spies was to keep key information from Dumbledore in order to protect him, it might be wise to establish a similar rule for rogue agents, as well.

And, unfortunately, the only way to learn the facts of the matter was to ask either Snape or Zarekael about it.

_There's nothing for it,_ she sighed inwardly, setting her jaw. _I'll just withstand the temptation to beat about the bush, and I won't ask either of them about their family history, and as long as that bloody dragon doesn't show up…I may just survive the conversation._

ooo

She decided, more on a whim than for any traceable purpose, to talk with Snape first, but as it turned out, that was the perfect choice. When she knocked at Snape's door, it was Zarekael who answered and, without a word, motioned for her to enter.

The apprentice looked very much worse for the wear; his face was dark with dried blood, and while the wound that had drawn the blood in the first place had been healed, he hadn't bothered to clean up, nor to change out of his torn, untidy, and bloodied shirt. Behind him, Snape stood up groggily from a chair to greet her, and she saw that his shirt, too, was torn and bloodied, showing evidence of an also-healed slash across his arm and part of his chest. He had also not cleaned up, and his movement drew her eye first to him, then to the two fencing swords tossed carelessly aside nearby.

She could see two whiskey bottles, one empty and one halfway there, on one of the tables, and there were two rocks glasses in evidence. It was clear from both men's manners that they had just woken up, and although they were probably hung-over, they had just as probably started right where they had left off with the bottles.

Meli entered, and Zarekael turned his back to her when closing the door, a sign more of trust, she gathered, than of contempt. He then stepped past her to stand at Snape's right and turned once more to face her, both father and son plainly waiting in weary expectation for whatever it was that she had come to say.

Seeing them so battered and reduced, she couldn't help herself and, instead of jumping directly to the point, she had to ask: "Are you—?"

Snape held up a hand to cut her off before she could finish asking for an answer she already knew.

"You're right," she conceded. "Stupid question. Moving beyond _that_ epiphany…" She took a deep breath, pausing to think out her next words in the hopes that a precise phrasing would prevent a nasty misunderstanding. "Given the tenuous nature of the alliance with the Department of Mysteries," she began after a moment, "I can understand you wanting to give Dumbledore plausible de—"

She never made it further; Zarekael turned to look impassively at his father, who met his eye in return. "I told you, Severus," the apprentice said flatly. Both men's faces had turned to stone, with empty, dead eyes, the father nodding in silent agreement with his son.

"I spoke the truth," Snape told Meli without inflection as Zarekael turned away.

"But why you?" she blurted out. "Why the Ebonys? I understand you're being tested, but why choose _them_?"

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realized that they had come out completely wrong. She had meant, of course, that _Voldemort_ had chosen the victims…but that wasn't what her friends had heard. Snape looked stunned, as if she had punched him in the gut, and Zarekael whirled about to face her, his expression incensed. His eyes were not changing, at least, but that was scant comfort, for they blazed now like Hellfire.

"Why were the Ebonys chosen?" he snapped. "I can give you any number of reasons why the Ebonys were chosen. They're Muggles, their daughter is a Muggle-born witch who happens to be the Minister of Mysteries. I can tell you _why_ they were chosen, but _we_ didn't choose them—we only rarely get _that_ 'honor'." He practically spit out the last word. "And as for why it was us?" He glared at her and ripped up his sleeve, exposing his odd dragon-and-skull Dark Mark.

Snape put a hand over Zarekael's Dark Mark, almost as if he couldn't stand the sight of it, and looked at Meli, his countenance once more resigned and touched by sadness. "We are slaves, Meli," he told her quietly. "Our wills and our desires mean nothing—we've sold our right to choose."

They believed she thought them traitors; as far as they were concerned, she had thrown in her lot with her adoptive family—against them. It was all she could do to keep from showing that she was near tears as she felt the anguish well up inside of her at the realization that she had done more damage now than ever before. It was the last message she had ever wanted to convey to them, and she had delivered it, in all of its falsehood, as truly and thoroughly and devastatingly as anyone else could have done.

_I never thought them traitors, but I never thought them slaves, either…and I never knew that they thought of themselves that way._

Zarekael looked down at his Dark Mark, away from her, and she felt that if she left them now, without even trying to undo the damage, the door would close behind her forever.

"That isn't what I meant," she said haltingly.

The apprentice looked up again and, in a tone as dark as his glare, asked, "Then what _did_ you mean?"

_Right back where we started,_ she thought. _Except that it's worse every time. And now we've come to the point where, no matter what I say, they won't believe me anyway._

That realization acted as a catalyst that turned her anguish to dynamic anger. _To Hell with it,_ she decided, and abandoned her emotional restraint. "Bloody fucking pronoun!" she burst out. "I didn't mean _you_ chose, I meant _he_ chose! But it started out wrong and got worse from there, which _really_ shouldn't surprise any of us, since that seems to be the only thing I'm capable of anymore!" She felt a tear escape at last and trickle down her cheek. "Oh, **_fuck_**!" She actually stamped her foot as more tears followed the first. "We're on the same side, damn it all, and I can never say it _right_! It _never_ comes out right, and all I ever do is make things worse, and I am _so bloody sick and tired of it_!" She clamped her mouth shut then, rather than make a bigger spectacle of herself in front of the two astonished Potions teachers, and, throwing her hands up in the air, she sat on the floor and had a good, long cry while the others looked on.

A few minutes passed while she let her tears out, then Snape sighed. "Oh, for God's sake, sit in a chair," he muttered.

While the invitation wasn't exactly friendly, she hadn't the energy to be rude and refuse it, so she silently complied. Once she was settled, Zarekael picked up the half-full whiskey bottle and an extra rocks glass and plunked them down on the end-table nearest her.

"Welcome to our party," he said dismally, then he threw himself on the couch, and Snape fell back into a chair, and there they sat, united in their misery, if in nothing else.

ooo

Meli returned to her rooms long before noon, not having touched the proffered whiskey but dissipated nonetheless, as she faced a very long day of staring at the walls and wrestling with her thoughts. The time really mattered very little, in reality, since she had no windows and wouldn't have been able to sleep in any case. She found herself unable even to drown her sorrows in drink—she hadn't enough will to ponder a bottle, much less open one and partake.

She had counted herself fortunate to be both alive and still Zarekael's friend after the Dursleys' deaths and the near-disastrous conversation that followed, but instead of learning her lesson and just keeping her mouth shut altogether, she had just made the same mistake all over again. And while her life had never once been in danger, the outcome of this face-off was far worse. Snape and Zarekael now felt, once and for all, that they truly could trust only one another, and she had, in the same shot, destroyed any trust they had of her.

Up until that point, she had been their champion, standing up for them or at least, in the case of the summer assassinations, saying nothing to condemn them. Now, however, she had shown herself to be just like everyone else. They had opened the door to Rasa and had instead admitted Amber Ebony—a different face, to be sure, but the same cold accusation.

The worst of it was that, in their eyes, she had defended them publicly then turned around to condemn them privately. She might not be as many-faced as her aunt alleged, but she was most certainly perceived as two-faced, and that was quite enough.

A hollow well of loneliness opened up inside of her, and she drew her knees up to her chin, as a child might when she was trying to disappear. Snape and Zarekael had been the only family left to her; they were the only people in the world whose good opinion mattered. Dumbledore was a distant, if friendly, figure, and Poppy and McGonagall were necessary pleasant acquaintances. Everyone else thought her dead, and after her display in the hospital wing the previous evening, her adoptive family would not be inclined to think well of her if they ever learned that she had been Rasa.

Severus Snape and Zarekael Sel Dar Jerrikhan were, as she had said a year before, the best friends she had…but not anymore. She was left alone, untrusted, trusting few, and thought to trust no one.

All on account of her Gryffindor tongue.

Ever since awakening in the hospital wing after her "death", she had felt her serpent's nature becoming more and more prominent, slowly taking over because it must. Her survival and her anonymity both depended heavily upon her ability to be subtle and cunning, and for that reason alone, the lion would have been forced to bow to the snake. The helpful, if wholly unintentional, influence of Snape and Zarekael had further intensified the effect, to the degree that she wondered if a re-Sorting at the end of the war might just put her in Slytherin instead.

Unfortunately, the transformation had not yet affected the most brazen part of her—her mouth. Her notorious tendency for speaking first and thinking after was woefully intact in all of its glory, and whether or not this occasion would prove to be the last, it was certainly the most costly.

Meli buried her head in her hands and sat motionless in the solitary silence.

_I had better get used to it,_ she thought bitterly. _It _is_ only me from now on, after all—God, too, I suppose, but I haven't quite got the hang of conversing with Him, and I can't very well have Him over for tea._

It was an irreverent thought, of course, but she didn't particularly care. If God couldn't take her as she was, that was His problem; she was used to being alone.

Well, she had been at one time, anyway—before an annoying neighbor girl had made it her mission in life to befriend her. Meli hadn't wanted friendship until she knew what it was, but now…It was addictive, she was forced to admit, and withdrawal might not be deadly, but it would certainly be Hell.

From somewhere in the less dark recesses of her mind came, unbidden and manifestly unwelcome, an odd little stanza that refused to go away once it had announced itself:

_A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa',  
A night o' gude fellowship sowthers it a';  
When at the blythe end of our journey at last,  
Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has past?_

It was Robert Burns, back to haunt her, and this time the words of "Contented Wi' Little", far from comforting, rang through the silence in accusing mockery. Her "towmond o' trouble" was, quite simply, that she now had no opportunity for the comfort of "gude fellowship". And whatever road Robert Burns had walked, Meli Ebony had no comparable assurance that her journey would end happily. It was likelier than not that she and her friends would die long before the war ended, and any of them who didn't stood a good chance of being forced into quasi-voluntary exile or, in the case of the spies, sentenced to Azkaban. The Ministry of Magic was happy to accept help but villainously reticent to reward it.

A heavy pall fell over her as the full weight of her stupidity at last came to bear. Her friends would die, whether sooner or later, believing that she judged and blamed them as the rest of the world did. And if she died first…she doubted that they would grieve for her as she would do for them.

The lion within reared up in protest, demanding that she act now and speak up to prevent such a thing, but for the first time in memory, she firmly reined it in. It was the lion's roar that had destroyed this, and she was not about to allow it a chance to wreak even further damage.

_Let Severus and Ruthvencairn judge me by what I do,_ she decided morosely and without much hope. _I shall have to prove myself trustworthy—_She broke off the thought and swallowed hard in the wake of a bitter epiphany. _Just as they've had to do with Dumbledore,_ she finished sadly.

It gave her direction, deciding to be their friend even if they were not hers, but she still felt no hope in the moment.

She understood at last—fully and heartbreakingly—the utter despair in Zarekael's eyes when facing Dumbledore after obliviating the Llewellyns.

For the first time since childhood, she tasted misery in its unadulterated form…and it was, indeed, Hell.

ooo

**FURTHER AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Ah, yes, Cinammon. Rasa is back to work for a bit, and Aunt Amber, while understandably upset, will prove her coolness yet. I'm not sure what you mean by saying this is very Hufflepuff, but to answer your question about names…I suppose it depends on which names you mean. Henry is just a great grandpa's name; as for the rest of the Ebonys, all of the women (with the exception of Meli, who's adopted) are named for colors (Bianca (white), Rose, and Amber). Pretty much any other name in the story was chosen for or evolved out of meanings; I'll be happy to give meanings for any of those you ask about, but if I list them all here, the A/N will be longer than the chapter.

Thanks for your review! More story will be forthcoming soon.  
AE


	25. The Benefit of the Doubt

**Chapter 25: The Benefit of the Doubt**

By the following morning, the Ebonys were ready to leave Hogwarts, and Meli was able once again to bury herself in her work. She was quieter than usual, but even Dumbledore and Poppy chalked that up to a combination of her current identity and the emotional turmoil of her family having to go into hiding. Amber dropped by to see them all off to the Bat Cave, and while she said a number of uncharitable things about Rasa (to Meli's face), Meli's resolve to keep her mouth shut remained firm.

Only Rose Ebony seemed to have any clue that her new protector had suffered some sort of crushing blow, and after catching her grandmother's compassionate eye a few times too many, Meli kept her gaze studiously focused on anything else. She led her grandparents out of the hospital wing and into the deserted guest wing near Ravenclaw Tower, where she gave them a brief crash-course on portkeys and then used one of those tools to transport them all to the Bat Cave receiving parlor.

She had owled Alfred to expect them, and he met them in the parlor with a pot of fresh tea and a tray of scones, biscuits, and crumpets. Meli would have excused herself then, but Rose specifically invited her to stay. She therefore sat through an hour of Henry muttering viciousness about his scar and how he had come by it and Rose trying to engage her in conversation; Alfred stood nearby, his expression unreadable except for a brief flashing of his eyes when Henry said something particularly vitriolic.

After tea, Alfred showed the Ebonys to their temporary quarters, freeing Meli at last to wander aimlessly through the house. She ventured up to the ground floor, where she paced several times around the library and stopped briefly at the window to watch the snow falling outside. It was winter, she realized abruptly—somehow it had come without her noticing…and with winter, of course, came Christmas.

She felt her inside hollow out at that thought. Snape and Zarekael had been planning to come to Snape Manor for Christmas Eve; the house elves were doubtless making furious preparations for the visit…but now, she thought, they probably wouldn't come. Why should they, after all? Snape hated the place, Zarekael had only rarely been there, and the only draw either one had ever mentioned was that she, their friend, lived there now.

And now they were no longer friends.

_Alfred and Lavinia will be so disappointed,_ she thought matter-of-factly. _They miss the days when they had a family here to serve._

Her throat tightened as she turned from the window and wandered away, finding her way eventually back downstairs to the Bat Cave. She made it perhaps a half-dozen steps in the direction of her rooms before her ears told her that she was no longer alone.

"You'll want a cardigan or a cloak if you spend much time in the corridors, Mrs. Ebony," she said quietly, turning to face her grandmother. "It's rather damp and a bit drafty here."

"The cold has never bothered me much," Rose answered. "And I was only coming out to find you."

Meli raised her eyebrows. "Is anything the matter with your rooms?"

"Oh, no, dear," the elderly lady replied reassuringly. "Everything's wonderful. I only wanted to talk with you." She cocked her head to one side. "Particularly now."

Meli frowned. "Why particularly now?"

Rose offered her a sad smile. "Do you know that you hum when you're alone?" she asked.

The corridor was lit only by widely spaced-out torches, so it was doubtful that the older woman could see the younger one pale, but Meli couldn't keep her eyes from widening for a long, horrified moment as the breath froze in her lungs. _Of all the stupid things I could do!_ she fumed inwardly. _I ought to have been twice as much on my guard, even when I thought I was alone!_

"It's…been pointed out to me before," she said aloud, managing to keep her voice steady. "Why do you ask?"

"The tune caught my attention," Rose answered bluntly. "From 'The Lancashire Posy', isn't it?"

Meli swallowed as she nodded. "'The Lost Lady Found'," she specified, still forcing steadiness even as she trembled beneath her grandmother's gaze. _Even _if_ she's found me out,_ she thought coolly, _I have no intention of saying anything until she does._

Rose, too, nodded slowly. "You're the one who sang at Meli's funeral," she stated. "Aren't you."

Meli stared at her for a moment, attempting to catch the flow of the conversation and failing miserably. "Yes…" she allowed.

Rose bit her lip and nodded again. "I thought you must have known her," she said. "Meli used to hum the very same tune."

Meli let out the breath she hadn't realized she was holding. _Good old Occam's razor,_ she sighed inwardly. _If Meli's dead, she'll go directly to the next logical conclusion without rethinking the foundational assumption._

"Yes," she answered again. "I…I knew Meli. We were in school together."

"You knew her well?" Rose asked.

Meli bit her lip and shrugged. "Well enough," she replied. She had a sudden thought and parted with an equally sudden smile. "Well enough to inherit her sheet music when she died."

Rose smiled back, but she was holding back tears. "You knew she played flute."

Meli nodded. "And she favored Arcangelo Corelli," she said.

It was true, every bit of it, but the number of people alive who knew about it was extremely low, and every single one of them was named Ebony. As Meli had observed to Zarekael over a year before, music revealed a great deal about a person, and with everything about her known to Voldemort and his flunkies, she held close to her the only thing she could. Her mother had started teaching her to play, and Crim had caught her practicing once or twice…but no one else outside her family had ever known. The Ebonys had noticed how secretive she was about it, and while they didn't understand her wishes, they had respected them; Rose could not help but see and understand the importance of Meli having told someone else.

And she did, Meli saw. Rose had always treated Rasa with general respect, but now she straightened and eyed the young woman before her with new eyes—and hopefully, by extension, she would see Rasa's friends with the same new eyes.

"She must have trusted you powerfully," the elderly lady observed.

Meli cleared her throat. "I suppose so," she replied in a low voice.

"She trusted your judgment?"

_Bingo._ "In matters of importance…yes." Meli looked her grandmother in the eye to gauge her reaction, and she was gratified to see gears turning in a promising direction.

Rose regarded her thoughtfully for a long, silent moment before letting the other shoe drop: "And what did she think of your friend Professor Snape and his son?"

Meli met that gaze without any thought of flinching. "She told me more than once that she found them to be the most honorable of men," she answered. "And I know I wasn't the only one she said that to." She raised an eyebrow and gave her grandmother a half-smile. "As I understand it, Meli introduced you to Professor Snape when she was younger; what did you make of him, Mrs. Ebony?"

Rose smiled sheepishly. "He was an intelligent and likable man," she replied. "I thought at the time that he suited Meli perfectly as a teacher and mentor, but she seemed a bit unsure of him."

Meli nodded. _Right,_ she thought. _I'd forgotten. We weren't friends yet at my parents' funeral._ "Professor Snape had…a dark reputation," she said aloud. "We were all a bit unsure of him, Mrs. Ebony, but Meli would never have let him accompany her to the funeral if she didn't trust him. Professor Dumbledore offered her a choice between Professor Snape and Meli's Head of House, and of the two, she was more comfortable with him."

Rose nodded slowly. "Given the circumstances at the time," she murmured, "I suppose that's the best demonstration of trust she could have given." She raised her eyebrows. "But what would she have made of this?" She didn't have to point to her scar for Meli to understand perfectly.

The younger woman shook her head. "I don't know, Mrs. Ebony," she replied. "She trusted Professor Snape and Zarekael, she would be grateful to have you alive…but she would have been torn, I think. The thought is always there, particularly in the minds of the spies themselves, that there must have been another way, a better way, a safer way…" She trailed off and shook her head again. "In truth, Mrs. Ebony, we are, all of us, torn."

"But Meli would have given them the benefit of the doubt?" Rose persisted.

_What an awful, ironic question,_ Meli thought darkly. "I believe so," she answered.

Rose chewed on that for awhile before nodding once more. "Then I suppose I should try to do the same," she said at last. "Henry will be a different matter, of course."

"I don't try to convince, Mrs. Ebony," Meli told her. "I only speak the truth as I know it."

"That in itself is enough," Rose replied. She shivered suddenly and let out a little laugh. "You weren't joking about the draft."

Meli smiled. "No," she said, and accompanied her grandmother back to the guest rooms.

ooo

Rose had been right about one thing: Henry was not convinced of Snape and Zarekael's trustworthiness. Meli might have been content to let her grandfather have his opinions while she had hers, but unfortunately, it was not lost on her that the very men he spoke of so hatefully had furnished their home for his protection. More than that, it made it all the more painful for her to remain loyal to her friends because it felt like a strange betrayal of her family.

Her one consolation was that she had the worst of it…but as she discovered soon enough, even that wasn't the case.

The Ebonys stayed in the Bat Cave for a total of three nights, and Alfred tended to them without so much as a peep of dissent. Late on the third evening, though, Meli was walking from her potions supply room back to her quarters and saw Alfred coming out of the Ebonys' rooms, a silver tray full of china in hand. He bowed a polite good-bye toward the room he had just exited, closed the door behind him, walked calmly a dozen or so paces down the corridor, and promptly slammed the tray, china and all, into the wall beside him. He followed this up with a sound kick that ought to have broken every one of his toes but which appeared not to faze him at all and certainly didn't interrupt whatever it was that he was viciously muttering.

"Alfred!" Meli called. "Are you all right?"

Instantly, the little house elf whirled to face her, his manner businesslike and courteous; he even had a servile little smile firmly in place. "Good evening, Rasa," he said in his usual tone.

Meli was impressed but not put off. "What happened, Alfred?" she asked.

He narrowed his eyes and gritted his teeth, but it wasn't, as she first suspected, out of determination not to answer. "I have _never_, in all my years of faithful service, heard my master so roundly and unjustly abused by someone without a blood connection," he spat. "For _family_ to treat its son that way is horrible enough, but for complete strangers who are _beholden_ to him—!" He made a quarter-turn and kicked the wall again. "It cannot be borne! It simply cannot!" He turned back to Meli and shook his head, and she thought she caught the glint of angry tears in his eyes. "You are the master's friend, Rasa, and I have come to think of you as my friend, but if the master had not commanded me to follow your orders, I would not—not for them!" He waved a hand in the direction of the Ebonys' rooms. "It is too much, even for a bound house elf."

Meli looked at him, stricken. She couldn't remember ever having seen anything like an emotional reaction out of Alfred in her entire time at Snape Manor, and even a small one would have been a shock. "Alfred," she said quietly, "I'm so very sorry—"

Before she could say anything further, though, an alarm sounded, and both she and the house elf swore. It was not the standard signal for someone escaping to the Bat Cave but rather a different one that sounded only when Snape or Zarekael came to Snape Manor. They had a separate parlor in the dungeons into which they would portkey from time to time to bring potions or other supplies Rasa needed, and they were, fortunately, wise enough to stay there until she came to them. Unfortunately, she didn't want to see either of them just now, she was sure neither one of them particularly wanted to see her, and she had her hands full with the Ebonys and an irate house elf.

"Alfred, I'll—"

"Oh, by all means," Alfred interrupted, once more his calm, collected self. "See to the wanted guest. I'll inform our unwanted guests that you've put the Bat Cave under lockdown."

Meli regarded him warily for a moment, but she didn't have time to argue. "When you're done," she told him, "please bring tea to the receiving parlor."

Alfred smirked. "A wise precaution," was all he said before bowing and walking back to the Ebonys' rooms.

Meli shook her head and activated the wards to lock down the Bat Cave; it wouldn't do, after all, for either of the Ebonys to go wandering and stumble across whoever it was that had brought the potions delivery this time.

Particularly if Rasa, who had vouched for them, was in the middle of a staring or shouting contest with them.

She shook her head again and turned her footsteps toward the far end of the dungeons. It puzzled her that someone had come just now; the next scheduled delivery was a week away, and she hadn't used unusual amounts of any of her stocked supplies. She wondered uneasily if her visitor had come for a further argument over what had happened to the Ebonys, or—worse—if Dumbledore had convinced one or both of them to kiss and make up.

_Hell would freeze over first,_ she thought. _After all, Dumbledore's been trying to convince Severus to cut the Marauders a break for half his lifetime, and he hasn't budged yet._

It brought an odd sense of relief, really, to know that; she had far rather live in honest separation than in falsified friendship.

Meli came to the parlor door far too soon and was forced to set aside any thoughts that might interfere with whatever was now to come. She took a deep breath, turned the knob, and walked into the room, looking and feeling every inch a whipped puppy.

Her first realization on entering was that this was not a standard supply delivery, if only because both suppliers, not the usual one, had come. She blinked in surprise, but, in keeping with her resolution to keep her mouth shut, merely greeted Snape and Zarekael with a nod.

They stood ten or so paces away, Snape to her left with a cauldron in his arms, Zarekael to the right with a wooden case more suited to holding raw ingredients than bottles of potions themselves. There was a moment of awkward silence, which Snape shattered by plunking the cauldron down on the floor and looking pointedly at Meli.

"We didn't come just to deliver potions ingredients," he said bluntly.

Meli's heart sank. _They're here to say the friendship's officially off. _ "I know," she replied hollowly. "It doesn't take two of you to drop off a box and a cauldron." She cleared her throat. "But, please, before you say what you've come here to say…I want to tell you again that I'm sorry." She lowered her eyes. "For whatever it's worth."

"You have nothing to apologize for," Snape countered. "_We_ owe _you_ an apology."

She looked up in surprise and stared, first at him, then at Zarekael.

"Forgive us," the apprentice said quietly.

Meli blinked as surprise gave way to outright confusion. "What?" she asked lamely.

"Please forgive us," Zarekael repeated, with a bit more fervor.

"For _what_!" Meli sputtered. "_I_ questioned _you_! Why are you asking _my_ forgiveness?" _This is not—cannot—be happening!_

"_We_ have shown ourselves to be untrustworthy," Zarekael countered, "whereas you have shown yourself to be nothing _but_ trustworthy. You have stood by us time and again—"

"And yet when you needed the benefit of the doubt," Snape added, "we didn't give it."

Meli shook her head. "But you've always had a reason for everything you've done," she insisted stubbornly. "You've proven yourselves again and again—why should this time have been any different?"

"You've done _nothing_ to deserve our doubt," Zarekael said, just as stubbornly, "and when we have deserved yours, you've still trusted us and stood by us. How could we expect the very thing we would not give?"

"Look," she sighed. "There is nothing for me to forgive you for."

"**_No._**" Zarekael was adamant, and she saw in his eyes that this matter was of utmost importance to him. "_Do_ you forgive us?"

She looked from one to the other and read nearly identical expressions on their faces. It occurred to her for the first time that she was not the only one who had felt the pain of their separation, and she saw that it was necessary for all of them to know that there was nothing at all standing in the way of their friendship. They needed to hear that she harbored no grudge as much as she had needed to know that they didn't think her a personal traitor.

"Yes," she said firmly. "I forgive you."

Snape closed his eyes and seemed to have a huge burden lifted from him. Zarekael met Meli's eye and nodded once. "Thank you," he said quietly.

Alfred chose that moment to appear with the tea, and at Meli's look of pointed inquiry, he bowed (unhappily, she thought) and smiled. "The Ebonys are alive and well," he reported coolly. "Will anyone be wanting blueberry scones?"

Snape cleared his throat and, with a smirk, informed the house elf that the cranberry he'd brought would be adequate.

"If you change your mind, Master Snape, you need only call," Alfred replied. "Lavinia said they should be out of the oven in ten minutes' time." He disappeared with a crack.

In his wake, the conversation turned first to business, then to Snape and Zarekael's Christmas plans. They were expected to put in an appearance at Hogwarts for Christmas dinner, but they could come away long enough for dinner and a small gift exchange on Christmas Eve.

"I have no doubt that the house elves will try to keep us longer," Snape remarked sardonically.

Meli nodded. "They miss you terribly," she replied. "Oh, that reminds me—Lavinia asked me to inquire about your favorite kind of meat."

Snape smirked. "You may inform her that my tastes have not altered since boyhood," he answered cryptically. "And please also ask her not to experiment this year; I'm still recovering from her venture into Scandinavian fare."

"I'll be sure to tell her," Meli promised.

They parted not long after, and there was no doubt of their parting as friends. Meli returned to her rooms with a smile on her face, and it was only a few hours more before she remembered to deactivate the lockdown wards.

Rose made no complaints; Henry, if he did, was kind enough to keep them behind closed doors.


End file.
